Qualcosa di blu
by Swamy
Summary: "I think that possibly came out wrong…" Or maybe not.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** Possibly a new fanfiction for me. Set a couple of months after the finale. Let me know what you think, and if it's worth continuing. The title means _Something blue_.

#

Bonnie raises her eyes to a wall of wooden masks towering over her outside Kermel Market in Dakar, a little further south on the Plateau near Novotel and Aveny Hassan II.

Empty eyes stare down at her making her feel a chill under the African sun as her guide tells her the history behind the Market itself.

"Kermel Market was built in 1860 in the Victorian style. Sadly, the building burned down in 1994," Nadine explains, squinting her eyes under her bucket hat. Bonnie can hear voices of pushy sellers fussing over clients, but she can't stop looking at those eyes, "but was later restored and was completed in 1997 in all its glory."

Bonnie follows her inside, throwing back her head to look up at the cupola above. The market is in a beautiful circular building that offers a sense of discretion and snugness. The fish traders have their place in the center, the smell of it is almost impossible to avoid but she doesn't mind it. Then come the butchers in the next circle, vegetable and fruit dealers outside, there together with florists.

Bonnie takes off her aviator glasses, fixes the scarf around her head before putting them into her shoulder bag and walks around the place with no rush. People seem nice and welcoming, smiling every time they meet her eyes.

She stops in front of a stall covered in colorful fabrics, the girl working there has large eyes and kind features. Behind her there are wax prints, basins of all qualities, a rainbow of brodè fabrics, lightweight Khartoum cloth, lingerie and belly beads, buttons beads, zippers and ribbons. She hands her a vibrant cloth, the color of a sunset on the dunes. She's seen one now, and she can tell.

It took Bonnie barely two days to realize that the shorts and shirt were impractical, nevermind inappropriate. She was in Mali, then, and she changed her wardrobe joyfully, like she was playing dress up, thinking Caroline would have loved it. Dressing in fitting cotton clothes, covering herself up to the neck. It made it a lot easier to adjust to the temperature, and she's learned to appreciate the pleasure of strolling around in flowy dress, looking dignified and beautiful.

The fabric is soft to the touch and the sound of the girl's many bracelets as she moves add a dreamy quality to the place until someone snatches her hand away.

The old woman has her face down as she holds her hand between hers, speaking tiredly with a whiny voice. Bonnie's first instinct is to pull away, but the old woman looks so fragile she's almost scared to break her should she use too much force. The girl behind the stall rushes to take her by the shoulders and pull her away gently, calling " _Grand-mere_ , _s'il vous plait, calmez-vous,_ " and bends her head repeatedly towards Bonnie as an apology, but she's too concentrated on watching the white, empty pupils of the blind woman stepping back, compliant and tired, to do more than nod back.

"I don't understand. Something's wrong? What did she say?" Bonnie asks, turning to Nadine. She's learned a bit of French while she's been in the country, and whatever the woman said it didn't sound like it at all. The _lingua franca_ in Dakar is _Wolof,_ she's been told, but so many Senegalese languages have the status of national language that she has no way to know one from the other unless she asks.

"That was _wolof,_ " Nadine explains, confused herself about what she heard, "I think she said, 'Death does not give love, death gives death' _._ "

"The granny is not so blind, after all," Enzo's irreverent voice says, while he stands at Bonnie's side.

#

The day passes easily, and Nadine is nice company, if only too accommodating, reminding Bonnie of the fact that she's basically her employee. She's used to witty remarks and ironic comments, and this is almost too easy on her.

Out of instinct, Bonnie grabs the hand the old woman held, tries to spark some warmth into it like it's freezing cold. The shiver of fear has left a strange chill behind.

They pay a visit to the Soumbedioune night market. As the sun sets over Dakar, the crowds flock to the market to pursue endless stalls of freshly caught fish and seafood. Soumbedioune is as much a social experience as it is a culinary one, a point where locals, tourists, and fishermen come together in the pursuit of delicious dinner in a festive atmosphere. Bonnie can't help but smile and bask in the welcoming, jubilant meeting of different tastes and smells.

The tieboudienne has a reddish color and is placed on their table in a very large plate they must share, but it's no hassle for her. It feels warm, actually, to share food, making the moment much more comfortable and familiar. Their meal is the national dish of Senegal, consisting of flavorful fish that has been marinated with parsley, lemon, garlic, onions and other herbs, cooked with tomato paste and a variety of vegetables, and adding rice later.

She can look up and see the sky, feel the power of the earth tickle her senses, and it's almost like being at a crossroad, not knowing which direction to take. She can still feel the ghost of coldness on her hand.

"What are you looking for?" Nadine asks, making her look at her, one lock of her curly, ashy blond hair all on her forehead "Everyone that comes here is looking for something. The spirituality that escapes them whenever they cannot decide what to wear to do yoga, an adventure to talk about for the next ten years to be the envy of their friends until someone else goes to a more exciting place… maybe to buy a carved statue and feel like they've contributed to the development of the Third World and their conscience is immaculate now," she says, recalling the people she guided through Dakar, "But you're different. I never met someone like you, before," she adds, sounding almost in awe, "And I've met many people."

"How can you tell?" Bonnie asks with a shrug, "It's been only two weeks since we met." Before coming to Senegal she'd spent almost a whole month in Mauritania, traveling across the coast of the Pacific Ocean, and entering Senegal. It wasn't an easy journey, though surely the most fascinating, for she arrived in the middle of wet season, but the climate has become more tolerant and allowed her to visit more.

"All it took me to know was a couple of hours," she says with a smile, before reaching for the rice. In Senegal cutlery are not commonly used, if at all, unless it's an expensive restaurant that takes prides in its European style. Nadine simply grabs the rice with her hand, presses it into a ball closing her fist around it and brings it to her mouth. There are no hygienic concerns because tablemates just stick to their own side of the gigantic plate.

Bonnie presses her lips into a thin line and grabs her rice.

"Even when you don't know the language, you look at people and you seem to understand them, deeply," Nadine says gently, "You have such old eyes."

A corner of Bonnie's lips goes up as she says, "Sometimes all of me feels old," before taking a bite. She can't talk to her about what she's looking for, mostly because she doesn't know herself. Once Mystic Falls was safe, everyone seemed to know what to do, who to be with, what to make of the rest of their lives, but she didn't. She just had an immense power, and an immense solitude, and she needed to find a balance, so she bought a ticket for Africa, looking for the source of her power, for something to tell her _why her_ and _why this._ The very earth she walks upon in this continent seems to speak to her blood, a body she forgets about most of the time. Her mind here can expand in ways it never could, and her spirit gets deeper and deeper, but for her body she can't find any need.

It's a peaceful sensation, but one that makes her feel less and less human, every day. Because now her mind can draw her to Enzo in every moment, fit his presence in the real world for her to talk to, but touching him is cold.

The general commotion distracts her and Nadine turns her head over her shoulder to look in the direction of the voices.

"There's a _griot_ passing, _"_ she says, smiling openly at her.

"A what?"

"It's a storyteller… much like a medieval minstrel," she explains. "They travel though Africa singing and playing the kora or other instruments. Tonight, he'll sing for everyone, you'll have to see..." She doesn't need to insist for Bonnie to accept the invitation. Griots give voice to generations of West African society and she needs them, because Africa is making her control grow, as much as the empty space inside.

#

Meditation is so easy for her now. She barely needs to close her eyes for her mind to take over. The music coming from the street cannot scratch her concentration. She's so powerful sometimes she feels like it's pointless.

The tailor working in the tiny room in front of her building always listens to the same old cassette every night. His favorite singer is Viviane Chidid – she saw her name on a poster precariously attached on the wall at his back one day.

"So, what are you looking for, love?" Enzo asks, sitting under the open window in her simple room. His smile is melancholic, or maybe it's just the softness of the candle's light that make him appear so.

She smiles at him, "Hi, there." Enzo chose her with all the stubbornness he was capable of, and she's been waiting for so long for someone to choose her that she can't let this go. She falls onto her side on the pavement, her cheek pressed into one hand and he cocks his head to the side.

"Did you have fun today?" he asks.

"Lots. You would have known if you stayed around," she replies with no resentment.

"I love you," he says, his eyes smiling, "Can you feel it?"

"Yes," she lies. "Of course," she adds. "Do you think I wouldn't just get with the next handsome dead boyfriend if I didn't?"

She knows he loves her. She knows he will always love her, because his heart stopped when it was full of her, and it will be full of her forevermore. But her own is empty. She consumes her own love like a last resort to survive, and sometimes it seems to eat her up. But she cannot let this go.

"Traveling opened my mind, helped me control my powers," she says, recognizing the good effect of this change of scenery. "I live day by day, doing what I want, going wherever I want. And the world doesn't need me to save it. It's a good feeling."

"Indeed," he nods. In a way she's healed, because now she won't let herself be torn apart by any stranger's pain, because now her mind rules her life with clocklike precision. But she _needs._

"So you're here looking for your centre?" Enzo asks with a grin.

"Maybe," she shrugs, "Or maybe my centre will find me," she adds, and his grin becomes a smile. While in the silence, she can hear the ring of her phone calling her from the bottom of her shoulder bag, abandoned on the bed. Wet season made the connection so weak, most of the days, that she forgot she had a phone with her. She tried to keep it charged, but half the time she didn't bother to, and it's been more than a month since she heard from anyone in Mystic Falls.

Bonnie crawls to the foot of the bed.

"Maybe your centre did," he mutters under his breath while she picks the phone and reads the name _Damon_ on her fluorescent screen.

"H–" she can't even say a word before he speaks.

"About freaking _time_!" he says, releasing his breath almost violently, "I'm hoping, for your sake, that you have a kick-ass excuse for this radio silence. Because I get keeping the suspense and giving people space so they can miss you, but you've really taken this up a notch, Judgy. Your phone was constantly disconnected… and you didn't even have the decency to call your best friend."

His stream of words is something she's not used to anymore. She's been on her own for days and days, only listening carefully to her guide and her well-chosen words. And the way he calls himself her best friend is a sudden reminder of a connection, though she's lived the last months like a dry leaf carried away on the wind, just resting wherever. All this familiarity is off-putting and her own reaction is bizarre, because there's a part of her that reacts with a slight panic, like she just remembered she left the house without turning off the gas.

"That's not true," she says, trying to fall back into their routine, "I did call Caroline."

"I'm not dignifying _that_ with an answer," he mumbles, and she can easily picture him pouting. For a moment it tugs something inside, and it didn't happen in such a long time that she has to sit and bring her knees to her chest.

"Whatever," he continues, "I hope you're happy with your _Out of Africa_ thing because you have to come back."

Bonnie can just picture it, the next big bad at the town's border, the next ghost from Christmas past and their Army of Darkness, but it's something that someone else will have to worry about because she's not in the business of putting out everyone else's fire anymore.

"I don't," she says, her voice distant. It's so easy now to close herself off. She's been mastering the art and the shake of Damon's voice can't ruin it all. She won't let it. "Whatever trouble you guys are in, I'm sure you can manage."

"Not really."

She looks away for a moment, asks against every instinct because that's the right thing to do, but she thinks that she has no tears left to cry anymore. Even if he tells her that he's the only one alive on that side of the planet she'll barely feel tired. "Is everyone okay?"

"Everyone is alive and kicking, Bon-Bon," he reassures her, "But I… I'm getting married."

"Oh," she's always expected this, that they'd tie the knot and live happily ever after. Or the closest thing Damon and Elena can manage to be to happily ever after, considering that when they were together they couldn't last a single week without an almost violent break-up and an equally violent reconciliation, but in a way it still feels like a surprise.

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," he says flatly.

"Sorry," she rushes to say, though he doesn't sound that ecstatic either. "I'm happy for you. Really. Did you pick a date?"

"Yeah, a bit less then a month."

"You're really not wasting any time," she comments, "And I'll try and come back for the wedding." A day of joy, though not strictly hers, would do her good, she supposes, but the more the idea sinks in, the more she wants to lose the ticket for the flight home, miss the plane and never go back.

"You'll have to do better then _try_. I need you here, like _, now."_ Damon says, adamant, "I need your help with picking the suit, writing my vows, and all that jazz." He explains, "Oh, and you have to throw a badassical bachelor party for me. Something that will put to shame every bachelor party ever done before. I'm thinking something along the lines of the rescue scene in The Wolf of Wall Street, maybe?"

"Luckily for you, I keep an Italian military helicopter in my backyard," she plays along before realizing what he said, "But that's still the _best man's_ job," she replies, grimacing.

" _Exactly_ ," he agrees, readily, "I see you're keeping up. So I need you to be here, by yesterday."

"I don't think the time zone works like that," she objects, "And maybe you didn't notice before, but I'm a woman."

"Don't worry," he replies, "Your thoughtful habit of going around without a bra under your shirt while we were on the other side made sure I noticed."

She rolls her eyes, feels the slight warm rising up to her cheeks but tries to ignore it.

"Damon, what I meant to say is that a _Best Man_ is usually, you know, a _man_ ," she explains patiently.

"Bonnie, what I meant to say is that I really, you know, don't give a _fuck_ about that," he replies in the same tone, "You are my best friend and there is no way that I'm doing this without you. You need to be on the altar with me when I say _I do_."

There's an awkward moment of silence before he speaks again, "I think that possibly came out wrong…"

"Yeah…" she agrees with a nod. That's an understatement.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** I'm still wrapping my mind around this idea and deciding or un-deciding stuff, so I count on your reviews to help me out in my little process. If you read, please let me know what you think of it.

#

He's not even nervous about this, not much. It's just one more thing on his to-do list. Change the light bulb in the master bedroom, cut the grass in the garden, get married. He hates cutting the grass and since he's human and he has no time to waste, he doesn't see why he should stall with it. He needs to go ahead, do this, and move on. His brother died so that he could do this, could build a life of value. And Bonnie will have to come back now. no matter how badly she wants to get away and leave the past behind, she'll have to come back because she's his best friend. Even on the other side of the planet, even if she seems to manage perfectly without him, she's his best friend and if he's too busy wondering what the fuck she's doing and where she's doing it, he can't really do this.

The phone rings in his pocket and he takes it to check the incoming message. He told Bonnie to let him know when she was due to arrive at the airport, not that she was particularly ecstatic at the prospect, but she will come back. She has to.

The message is from Elena, letting him know she had to switch shifts with another student so they can't have dinner together tonight. He writes back that it's okay, that they can see each other tomorrow. Well, they'll see each other every day for the next sixty years, so it's not such a problem if they're apart for the night. Or the next month, actually.

He doesn't know who came up with the idea, but it seemed to make sense. Maybe Stefan's sappiness slipped inside him together with the blood that cured his vampirism, but the no-sex rule until their wedding night seemed so right when they came up with it. It will be their first time since becoming humans, it will be different the way everything else is now. It will be special, or so he told her when he said the words.

She decided it was more practical for her to stay at the dorm. It's closer to the hospital and she has the quiet she needs to study. He really doesn't mind.

Damon Salvatore going voluntarily celibate—it sounds so ridiculous. But suddenly he feels no rush at all to jump into the pit of this relationship, though time is not the most abundant thing on hand for a human being. It's just that he wants to do this right, build their perfect future from scratch.

Right now, playing the supporting boyfriend seems the best course of action. He'll be the husband of a doctor, one day, and he needs to help her out, be thoughtful. So, it's okay if she has late hours and long shifts. He has his own stuff to figure out, he thinks, pouring himself a drink. He's thinking about that bar Stefan had him opening in the fantasy future he gave him. After all, he knows how to pick his alcohol and manage bar fights. He has accumulated enough money throughout the years to live off of for the next two lifetimes, but he's only got one and he needs to keep himself occupied during the day; so, why not?

Damon turns around to sit on the couch, staring at the papers in front of him. He could buy the Grill and make some renovations to make it more in his taste. It wouldn't be a bad idea at all, he thinks. That place is full of memories, not many of them are good, but they're memories of his brother, of his best friend, of the girl he's gonna marry, so they are worth keeping.

He puts down the glass, letting it rest above the pile of magazines next to the blueprint of the Grill. Caroline – in her maniacal, very Jennifer Lopez wedding planner mode – left them there for Elena to check out but she hasn't had the time to do it yet. It's a column of bridal magazines, with glossy pages and pastel colors. His lips curl into a grin watching the long limbed black girl in a feathery white dress with a mismatched jacket sheltering her from the chill as she leans against a railing behind her. On the cover, in big letters, it reads, "25 tablescapes that gives us autumn fever,"and "These epic elopement photos will make you reconsider the Big Wedding."

"Nope," he says, pushing the glass up on the cover to read the last word of the second title _._ Their Big Wedding will give him the chance to see it all in front of him, his wife, his friends, the way his life is going to be and how much sense it makes. Right now it's just a blur, planning a wedding with a girl he's not even touching, deciding on an investment that will occupy his next sixty years, waiting around for his best friend to be in front of him so he can read on her face how right it is, what he's doing, but on that day he will know without the shadow of a doubt that he's finally got it right, the stars are aligned and everything is right in the world.

Maybe if he plays his cards right he can even convince Bonnie to stick around, work with him, be his business partner. He'll put in the money, and they can run the bar together. She can help him pick its new name, cover for him if he needs to run an errand, be there when they turn the closing sign and enjoy a drink once they are finally alone and about to go home. If she'd think about it, he would place an offer to buy the Grill right now.

Damon takes his phone from his pocket to check the messages. His inbox is empty.

#

Dakar's Leopold Sedar Senghor International Airport is crowded when she gets out of the black and yellow taxi and Bonnie must squeeze her way in through the small doors, dragging her trolley case after her.

She stands resolutely in line, in front of the Turkish Airlines desk to secure her ticket. There's a plane she intends to catch, destination: Cairo.

She'll have to do a stopover in Instabul, but that's fine. At least she'll have an opportunity to stretch her legs after sitting in a cramped space for seven hours. And after that it will be pyramids and deserts and endless days of fascination.

"Are you really going to stand Damon up?" Enzo asks, standing next to her with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the line in front of them with little interest. "I never thought I'd see the day," he comments with a sneer.

"You've seen the day many times," she corrects him, dragging her trolley case as she takes a step ahead.

"Yeah, but you were angry at him because you thought he didn't care about you. Now you know he cares so much he basically can't do a thing without you and you're still bailing out on him."

A feminine voice announces the boarding for a flight headed to Ciudad Del Este, and a kid starts to whine to his mom about something she can't understand.

"I'm not," she protests irritated, "I'm just taking a detour on my way home. A couple weeks…" she shrugs "maybe a bit more," she adds, trying to make it sound reasonable. But Damon is getting married in four weeks and she's stalling.

"Maybe four weeks, why not? And, _oops, I just couldn't make it, Damon, I tried."_

"What? Are you suddenly treasurer of the Damon Salvatore Fan Club?" she asks, turning her head to see his profile. "I don't get why you're so adamant about me going back home."

"I don't get why you're so adamant about you _not_ going back home," he replies, turning to meet her eyes. But when he does she turns her face, making him grin. He caught her. "You're avoiding something, and the Bonnie I knew was not scared of anything."

"The Bonnie you knew was dead half the time," she mutters, and in a way that didn't change. Here, in the other half of the globe, where no one knows her she can be someone else, nobody if she so likes. Here, no one can spot her weakness, no one can ask anything of her. Here, she's not the lonely survivor of a family of witches. Here, she's not the only one left without roots to hold onto, without someone to hold on to her for dear life. In this airport, in this nation or the next, she's a young, strong woman traveling the world, too independent to let a man hold her down or stop her from pursuing her dreams. Curious people are happy to make up the most exotic, fascinating stories about her life, but back home her story is written on a series of headstones. Back home, Caroline has two daughters to look after, Matt has a city to protect and Damon has a new life to build, and she has nothing.

She's irritated by Enzo's words, and all the waiting and she taps her foot on the floor, as she watches people walking all around her. Something vibrates against her thigh, for the millionth time since she arrived in Yoff, where the Airport is, and she picks the phone from her bag looking for something to occupy her time while she waits, so that she will be able to ignore Enzo.

There are a large number of emails piled up in her inbox, and she swipes almost all of them away. It's old junk mail, sales from stores she's bought from once or twice, and a few ones from her credit card company to notify her of the charges from her movements in Africa.

When she's done with that she checks her texts. There are a few messages from Caroline, pictures of her and the twins, the shining letters of the school's name over a pretty gate, very _X-Men_ like, and two messages from Matt. It's mostly basic things about how they miss her, updates on how life proceeds for them on the other side of the globe, and it feels nice. It's a little string that keeps them attached to each other, though in such a non-intrusive way that she doesn't even need to try and ignore it.

In her head she's adding up the numbers to calculate how many days in Egypt she can afford before she has to go back home. She's got a decent sum from life insurance, and she received a few checks from her mom, which she has never cashed, so she's good, but she doesn't want to go home just to be penniless. She actually doesn't want to go home at all. To what? She can find herself a job in the first nearby country of her liking, and what would stop her? Confines aren't a problem anymore. She even surpassed those of the physical, tangible world, and she speaks to the dead more than the living. She's stopped having a real home the moment her Gram died, and Mystic Falls is just the town where she grew up, where she died, and she died, and she died again.

On her phone the icon of her answering service helps her push away every qualm about what she's doing. It's her life, after all, and maybe this is the wrong move but if she wants to make it, it's her call and no one is going to make her change her mind. Not even Enzo, she decides as she calls the answering service to listen to her messages.

"Bon, where are you?" Damon asks, "This human thing is so _humiliating_. I was at a bar and I had to leave because I was about to fall face-first into my drink. I just can't keep myself awake. It's only 1 a.m. for God's sake! This is so lame... I'm an old man." His horrified tone makes her chuckle unexpectedly. Such a trivial, vain thing clashes with her calm, meditative ways and for a moment the warmth his voice sparks is uncomfortable. She looks about herself, like she's expecting to see people turned towards her, picking up on it, looking at her dismissively but everyone is minding their own business. She pushes back the hesitation, and presses the button to forward to the next message.

"There's no breaking news about an airplane crashing in Algeria so you're probably passed out because of the jet leg. And speaking of passing out, I suck at holding up my liquor, can you believe it? It's like I have to build my resistance back from scratch, but you know me. I'm _so_ up to the task. If you come back soon, next time we go out for a drink you could have the satisfaction of drinking me under the table. I'm sure I don't have to point out how you can't miss out on this opportunity. You might even have to carry me home, piggy back. I can't wait." There's something about the message that makes her feel awkward, though she doesn't know what it is exactly, not immediately anyway. Until she realizes, long moments later, when she's already listening to the fourth message that it's the fact that he's already planning their outings like it's any other day of the pre-Elena week that surprised her. Somewhere inside she had cowardly given up on him and their relationship the moment she knew Elena was back, and now she knows she's wronged him. It had never crossed her mind that Damon could still want her in his life in the same doses as before. Or, even at all. And it was easier to turn the page and pretend like she had closed that chapter herself, that it was just another milestone in her life and she was okay with leaving it behind. Leaving _him_ behind.

"This must be the lowest of the lows ever lowed before, Bon." He says, making a dramatic pause, "I just gave myself a papercut.A freaking, honest-to-God, bloody _papercut_. Next thing you know I'll choke on my own tongue while I say something worth handing down to posterity, but it'll will be totally unintelligible, so the world will miss out twice in one go. On my gravestone they'll write _He_ _lived like a sage and died like a fool._ Suddenly I'm amazed at Donovan's ability to last so long in this town. I clearly underestimated him."

She pressed the button again and gets washed over by a new flood of pointless information. In the background she can hear the sound of water flowing and the tinkling of glasses, she can picture him in his kitchen, phone trapped between his shoulder and his ear while he washes the dishes.

"I can't remember the name of that pastry shop where you brought that cake and I, in my innocence, accidentally ate it, thinking it was for me. And whatever you say, I'm telling you, there _was_ my name on it. What was I supposed to do? The _not for_ part didn't get registered, but truthfully, I think it was a Freudian slip on your part or something. Do some soul searching, and in the meanwhile, call and tell me?"

The pull of muscles on her face feels alien and unnatural now, because she hasn't smiled like this in ages and she's not sure it's a habit she can master again. And yet, here she is, in a stranger land, blended in a crowd, a little dot in the world, lost inside herself and smiling because Damon Salvatore is an asshole, and it feels good enough that her eyes flicker to the side, to see if Enzo is there, witnessing this, getting hurt because of it.

But he's not, and the smile falls from her mouth anyway when the next message starts.

"I miss Stefan," Damon breathes out, voice so raw the brush of it seems to scrape away a layer of her skin. Something hits her. Bonnie stumbles back as a woman pulls back her son and apologizes for the kid bumping her. She can't even blink, trapped inside the letters he's let out and their spidery ramifications. She can barely move her head in an awkward, single nod of recognition. The pause he makes is so long she thinks he just forgot to hang up, leaving both her and this conversation perpetually hanging, but then he speaks again. "Where are you?" voice urgent, burning through the space and into her, making holes on her perfect walls, which seem to curl on themselves and consume easily like they are made of paper. "He's got a good excuse for not being here, you know, but yours sucks a bit, honestly. I mean, I get that you want to see the world, but do you have to see it all at once?"

She lowers her head, feeling the slight of shame. It's been one emotion after the other since she first heard his voice, trying to break down the stillness inside, and she feels a bit like throwing up, so much so that she keeps the phone pressed to her ear even when she hears the sound of the disconnecting line. She needs to hear the silence, needs it to put herself back together, but his voice has set something in motion already.

When she raises her head again the woman behind the counter is asking her where she wants to go. The names of all the places she wants to see are blurred letters, distant ideas, but Damon is breathing against her ear, asking _where are you?_ She can feel the texture of his breath and the sound of his lashes lowering over his blue eyes as he looks at her with his own brand of violent vulnerability. The hair at her nape raises up and she feels goose bumps on her skin, under the long sleeves of her red and black silk shirt.

"Home," she says, and the idea takes sudden shape and substance, ringing of truth, "I need to go home."

#

Between the actual flights and the waiting, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the lounge, it takes her around thirty-seven hours before she's in Virginia. The Iberia flight 4869 she catches in Senegal leaves her in Madrid. Everyone around her seems frustrated, or impatient or plain tired, but she doesn't mind the waiting, she has no problem sitting alone and not talking to anyone.

"Are you nervous?" Enzo asks, sitting next to her.

She sighs before answering, "Why should I be?" She's not nervous, but deep down there's a little movement, like bubbles starting to form at the bottom of a kettle, she doesn't know what it is exactly but she can concentrate and still every movement of her soul. She can be more than herself, bigger than she was. The world around her, all this commotion cannot shake her.

"Have you told Damon you're going back?" he asks.

"He'll probably get the clue once he sees me," she replies blankly. Bonnie wants to enjoy her solitude until it lasts, distance herself from all that had power over her before. Her need to do her damnedest for those she loved, her fear of being cast away and forgotten once someone more special came into their lives, her idiotic, infuriatingly handsome jerk of a best friend.

Danger wouldn't have pushed her to go back on her steps, but his raw voice, his solitude did. Maybe if he had waited some more, if her cellphone would have just kept being a useless piece of plastic, if she'd had more time, enough time so that his voice would have had no effect over her, anymore. Or maybe not, because in one month, or one year, or one lifetime, Damon will still be Damon. But she's learning, she thinks, she's learning to let go of people, let go of him. Of her feelings.

Right now, she knows he needs her. She knows she needs to do this for him. Be next to him when he starts a new chapter of his life, leave him with peace of mind and the awareness that this is how things were supposed to go all along. And be on her way, out there in a larger world, where she's born every day, once again, in the eyes of strangers, out there in a larger world, where everything passes and nothing lingers.

On the flight from Madrid to the USA she starts to feel it, the light bubbling in her blood, the anticipation, but it's a flickering sensation she can smooth over with the same ease it takes to run a hand over fabric to smooth away the wrinkles.

She likes it, this new awareness, the fact that she has no need for anything. Bonnie takes a sip of water, though she doesn't need it, as she looks outside her window at the white they sink into when they pass through a cloud,. It's been thirty-something hours now since she last ate and she doesn't even feel the bite of hunger, not even a trace of appetite. The cabin is cold, the air conditioning clearly a bit too high, but she is not bothered by the temperature. A flight attendant hands her a blanket with a smile and she accepts it so as to not raise any question or interest.

Enzo reaches out for her, tries to take her hand under the blanket. She can feel the touch and for the first time is able to ignore how absent and cold it all feels, like her soul has gotten used to it. If she can forget how it felt to be held in warmth and softness, the absurd, thrilling joy of a chest shaking in happiness against hers, the smell of skin and pancakes, she'll be content forever. She turns her face towards him, smiles at him in their blue-lit, cocooned world, and chooses to forget there's another kind of life.

That kind of life is not for her.

#

She drags her case behind her, the wheels turning easily on the cheap marble with no need to rush. Everyone around her seems to have a fast steps, all so impatient to be home in the arms of their loved ones, but Bonnie cannot feel that anxiety. Her loved one is with her after all, and while everyone else is pulled by the strength of life, she is indifferent to it. The buzzing around her doesn't register in her brain, her mind lulls her senses. Her body is merely a tool for a spirit larger than life itself.

She can tune out the sounds, leaving her in quietude similar to when she would dive underwater. Only, she doesn't need to come up for air anymore.

"Home sweet home," Enzo says, the light blue ambiance around her is almost comforting, but the color draws in like paper absorbing water as soon as a sign rises up among the people, reading, _"Welcome back, Bon-Bon"._ There's a sound in her mind, like a pin scratching a record and the silence is replaced by noise so sudden that she stops and someone almost crashes into her from behind, managing to only bump her shoulder and muttering a _sorry_. The word is rushed, it slips automatically from the lips of the well-dressed man that looks over his shoulder as he keeps walking away from her, and it's all too much.

The noise covers the sound of the sign hitting the pavement when Damon just slips under the security rope and holds her against him, two feet off the ground. His fingers sink into her hair, palm sliding over her nape. Holding her face in the space between his shoulder and the column of his neck, her nose unintentionally tickles the skin, making her acknowledge the scent of him and his cologne, that woodsy, smoky, spicy mix she's learned like the back of her hand. He's wrapped around her, warm and strong and alive, and he won't let her touch the ground, won't let her get away. His voice is husky and relieved when he says "You're back. You're back," like he can't believe it, like he can't wait to make sure.

It's a breathless feeling, like the whole world shrank down just to envelop her. His heart beats violently against her ribcage, and his skin is hot against her. The shock from the contact, from the difference of their temperatures gives her a shiver. Her body, usually so compliant and indifferent, goes stiff in his arms, like an animal wary of an upcoming attack from a predator. Bonnie's eyes grow large and unfocused as she feels his fingers stretch against the base of her head, as she listens to the little, breathy sounds of his happiness. Her fingers grip the fabric of Damon shirt with little strength, like she's about to drown and is too shocked to do anything about it.

There's still a dazed look on her face when he finally puts her down again, but he's so _fucking_ happy to have her back he doesn't dwell on it. His hands cup her cheeks, fingers sliding down along her neck and her shoulders, to make sure she's been returned safely to him.

"Have you lost weight?" he asks, not waiting to have an answer to his question. "Did you miss my pancakes that much that you couldn't eat properly?" he asks with a wink, "Don't they have blankets on these flights? You're as cold as a popsicle," he adds reaching for the handles of her trolley case with one hand and hooking his other arm around her shoulders to guide her away.

"I'll cook you something that will make your toes curl," he promises, only getting a strange silence in return.

Damon can feel the stiffness of her body as he presses her to his side but he can fault the long flight for that. She spent two days cramped in a seat – not that she needs so much space considering she's actually pocket-sized – so it's only fair that she's tired.

"How was your unbearably long flight?" he asks, looking down at her at his side.

"Long," she replies, "Unbearably so."

"Smarty-pants," he says with a smile, dropping a kiss on the top of her head and missing the flashing panic that crosses her eyes. It is strange, the way in this part of the globe everything is so loud. And if he'd let her alone for a bit she could focus, concentrate on tuning it off, on getting a hold on herself. But suddenly, she feels again, with no filter. Just a pair of arms around her, and she feels a tender warmth slipping down through her skin, a silly kiss on her hair, and something drives down straight though her veins and inside her heart. She doesn't know how it's possible that suddenly the switch got turned on, she just knows that it feels like an assault and her first instinct is to blend in, disappear, so she's silent.

But Damon seems happy to speak for the both of them. He seems happy to hold her to his side and make way for her with his body when they go through the crowd, almost hiding her against his chest as he does so.

It's like a Damon Salvatore overdose. After months away she had almost forgotten how handsome and allergic to common boundaries he was. _Almost,_ because there is a voice inside her trying to call her out on that lie. He was in the back of her mind as she packed up and left without so much as a proper goodbye, because there was a chance her best friend would be only so happy to have her go away and leave him all the time in the world to devote to Elena. He was in the back of her mind while she walked through the markets and looked at herself in the mirror, because he was there too, that unapologetic, jackassical voice of his, with his stupid quips and his twisted mouth, and she talked to Enzo whenever that would happen because _Enzo_ was supposed to be the one always with her _._ And they talked, and she looked at him, and she sank consciously into his icy embrace and made Damon fade into the background.

But Damon is stubborn, and Damon always pushes his way to the front of the line, and Damon kisses her head and gives her body something to feel again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** Whenever I try and write this ff there's this voice in my head screaming "Help, I don't know what I'm doing." So, possibly, let me know. I need all the support I can get. In the meantime _Happy Easter_ everybody _._ Or Happy whatever-it-is-for-you. Have a great week-end.

#

She's spent almost the whole drive with her eyes closed, letting him think that she fell asleep as she tries to find some quietude inside. The change of scenery clearly put her off, but she can manage, she thinks. She knows how.

He was telling her something but he fell silent the moment he saw her closed lids, turning the volume of the radio down a bit so it wouldn't disturb her. He learned that in the prison world. Whenever she fell asleep watching a movie, turning off the TV would wake her up, the sudden change alerting her senses, so he started lowering the volume instead, allowing the background noise to lull her.

When the car stops and he turns the engine off she remains still, breathing deeply to deepen her concentration for a few moments more, until he'll tell her that they've arrived. But he doesn't. Minutes pass and he doesn't say a word so she slowly opens her eyes to find the wall of the Salvatore garage in front of her. Bonnie turns her head to the side and finds him sitting next to her silently, head turned towards her, a smile touching the corners of his mouth as soon as she looks at him.

"Rested well?" he asks, gently. She doesn't know if his choice of words depends on the fact that he caught on to her little lie or if it's just a coincidence, but in both cases she doesn't need to know. Damon, vampire or otherwise, is always humming with energy and she's surprised to see him silently waiting for her to wake up on her own.

Bonnie nods and swallows a little knot in the middle of her throat.

"Why are we here?" she asks, looking around herself.

"What do you mean? Where were we supposed to go? You're staying here," he says, like there was no other option to consider. "Think about logistics, Bon-Bon. I need my kitchen to express my culinary art, so what should I do? Go back and forth between your tiny house and my majestic one every time I need a spatula?"

She doesn't say he didn't need to, because there's no rule that forbids her from making her own breakfast or living without him, because that's not what he seem to think, and she knows better than to get tangled into a conversation she has no chance of winning.

One of her hands wrap around the safety belt while the other goes for the button, but he does the same. Their hands brush absently, briefly over it, before he unhooks his own seatbelt.

"I didn't tell Caroline and Elena you were going to be back today, so they won't interfere with your jet lag. That's _my_ job," he says, getting out of the car to take her case from the trunk.

"How did you know when I was going to arrive?" she asks, closing the car door, after getting out.

"Insightfulness, intuition, a work of deduction by my brilliant mind," he explains, closing the trunk and looking up at her. "Oh, and I called your travel agency and told them I forgot when I was supposed to pick you up at the airport and I couldn't get a hold of you to ask again," he adds with a grin.

"I ruined your surprise, I know, but it's not like you were about to show up at my door wearing only a gigantic bow for me to unfasten, right?" he asks, stopping to make a face like it just occurred to him that she might, "Because in that case hop in, I'm driving you to the airport again," he says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, "I'll make sure to do my surprised face."

She doesn't want to encourage him, but she can't help but shake her head and roll her eyes. "Idiot," she mutters, turning her back to go inside the house. He's so frustrating, so childish. So Damon.

Being away was supposed to give her perspective, make her more in control, and it did. But it also made her unprepared and weak to his stupidity. It's just so easy for him to get under her skin.

#

He wouldn't have admitted it put him off, the way her stiff body wouldn't relax next to him. It reminded him of when they would swear to anything dead or alive they hated each other's guts, and she meant it more than he did. Because even then it irked him how she would let people manipulate her and walk all over her, and he would promise Elena he could let her die – even kill her himself if that's what it took – for her sake any day of the week, and still spill blood to save her ass.

He remembers the moment the concept sank into his brain, that she trusted him, if only unconsciously. They roamed through the cabinets of his house while they were _living la vida loca_ in their 90's loop and he told her that "If we don't find some blood I'm going to go straight for your jugular, judgy."

He had spied her reaction, looking above the cabinet's door. She had turned her head to look at him, a condescending look on her annoyed face, lips pursed in her _you're-so-full-of-shit-Damon_ expression, which is subtext for _I-love-the-shit-out-of-you-Damon_ , or so he likes to think, and, "Yeah, right," she just said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

It was stupid. She probably doesn't even remember that moment, but it turned a switch somewhere inside. She was without her powers while he was still a vampire, so he decided he could do to her whatever crossed his mind, but she was absolutely unconcerned. He was going to bitch about her being uncompassionate and egoist while he starved to death, because he likes a touch of drama – thank you very much – but he wouldn't have hurt her for any reason. And a part of her already knew that, even before he could surrender to the concept and admit it to himself. Despite it all, a part of her already trusted him.

And now, after three months of cold treatment and barely a word out of her in the last hour and half, that shake of her pretty head and the rolling of her eyes tasted like victory, like the first step to regaining their normality. She doesn't want to be pulled back into the Mystic Falls habit of reaching Armageddon at least twice a year, and brush over the weekly, usual theatrical, talk about how to defeat evil or one-directions, and he can understand that; but, accepting it is something else entirely, because he doesn't like not having her around to ask stupid things to, like, what actor should play his role in a hypothetical movie about his life, and making his creepiest performance as he reads _I'm having an old friend for dinner_ , 45 down, as he sucks between his teeth.

Damon follows her inside and passes her to take the stairs, looking at her over his shoulder to will her to follow her as he carries her luggage. "Your room is ready. You can sleep your crankiness off and unleash the rest on me later," he decides. "You know I never back off from some tough love." Jet lag must have really taken a toll on her, or maybe he did something stupid as per that case they can call it even, considering she disappeared on him without as much as a word. She can get over this strange mood of hers any way she sees fit, but at the end of it he'll have his bestie back and that is all.

"I'll wake you up at dinner time," he informs her, opening the door to her bedroom and pushing the luggage inside.

"Don't," she answers, faking tiredness.

"At eight p.m." he adds, and when she turns around, ready to contradict him she only sees the closed door.

"Damn," she mutters under her breath. He's so exhausting she can feel her control slipping and the jet lag catching up to her. She massages her temples with two fingers and turns to walk to the window to pull the curtains closed. When she does so, and the room falls into darkness, she realizes there's still some light spreading on the walls. She turns to see a candle burning on the nightstand and she sits on the bed staring at the little flame. Her senses are tricking her, she realizes, because her brain is slow to catch the smell in the air. She pushes back the jar candle with one finger to read the name of it, though she recognized it. It's one of her favorites, something she was actually tempted to buy whenever she passed a duty free store at the airport, before deciding to give a go to the local incenses.

The wax is red and there's _Autumn Leaves_ written on the label, a medley of birch and maple leaves with pomegranate, juniper berry and orange blossom. It's one of her favorites. She blows on the flame to extinguish it and lays on the bed with her back to it. Enzo is staring at her as he leans with his back against the wall.

"I don't know who coined the phrase _eternal rest_ , but they clearly never had a witch as ex-girlfriend," he says with a sigh and a smile.

"What do you have to rest for? Being a ghost is that tiring?" she asks back, her cheek resting on the back on her hand, on her pillow. She's annoyed that Damon is so nice to her. It makes her feel guilty about the urge to keep her distance from her previous life. There's no need for Enzo to add to the pile.

"I could ask you the same."

"I'm not a ghost," she bites back.

"Aren't you?" He looks at her like a parent would a bratty child. "I know you want to be loyal to me," he says, his voice softening like a shadow, "But loyalty is something you give to the living. And your bestie seems to want it bad." When she side-eyes him, he shrugs and grins. "No pun intended."

"I always doubted your sanity whenever you stuck by him, but now... You're leaving him hanging when all he wants is for you to be in his life," he adds. "I gotta give it to him, when it comes to picking his friends he's got good taste."

Bonnie knows that Enzo is right. She knows she's being a horrible friend to Damon. But after months of perfect calm, he feels like an avalanche and her first instinct is to run from him.

"Whatever," she replies, turning onto her back. "I need to sleep now," she decides, letting the room go dark again.

#

Damon knows Bonnie. She can kick and scream but she always comes around. She always comes back to him.

It's something he's learned to count on, though sometimes he still finds himself holding his breath for that moment to come, the dropping of the other shoe, that moment when he screws up too badly and she decides she's had enough. He doesn't want to think of that. It's too cold and too empty if he thinks of that.

He raises his hand to knock on the door but it stills in the air because the door opens on its own. Bonnie brushes the sleep from her eyes with one hand. "Yeah, yeah, dinner time. My head is about to burst. I hope for your sake tonight menu's worth the effort," she says, dragging the words and her feet with some serious effort, walking ahead of him and leaving the door open.

"That depends," he quips with a tad too much enthusiasm for her taste. She's just woke up, and she hopes he remembers to keep the conversation to a minimum. If he feels the need, he can do the questioning and answer them himself, because talking is not something she can do when she's just woken up.

" _On what?_ You'll ask me," he says, "Or you would if you weren't comatose. And the answer is: on what we're making."

She stops dead in her tracks and he has to dodge, because with her shrunken size and his build they could do some serious damage.

She turns her eyes on him, her mouth pressed into a thin line, "I'm not kidding you," he says, answering her unspoken question. Bonnie starts to turn around to go back to her room but he takes her by the shoulders, turns her around again, and guides to the stairs. "Don't be a spoilsport. You always _loved_ preparing dinner with me."

"Never," she replies.

"Liar," he calls her, pushing lightly behind her so that she'll keep walking down the stairs. She's so compliant and lost whenever she's just woken up that it wouldn't have worked better than if he had planned this. The universe is clearly on his side.

She can only grunt her weak denial as they approach the kitchen.

"We can have broiled chicken with–" His proposal is interrupted by her whiny groan. "Hamburger sticks with onions and gravy?" he asks, getting a similar sound in response. "Veal escalopes with mushrooms?" There's a short, definitive sound coming from the back of her throat.

"And we have a winner!" he declares, leaving her standing in front of the counter. In a few moments he puts some flour, salt and pepper on a plate and places it in front of her. She merely crinkles her nose, but that's good sign in his book because it means that lucidity is coming back to her.

He passes her the tray with the veal and she starts seasoning it, turning it and turning it in the white powder. "Enough," he decides when she doesn't seem like she's going to stop repeating the action, over and over, unnecessarily. Damon places his body behind hers, her back adheres to his chest, his arm stretches above hers and his hand reaches for her own, which holds the veal. He gives a shake to it to make the excess flour fall and it reverberates through the length of her slender arm making her smile. This was something only Damon could do, make her feel good about childish things she never got to enjoy if not with him. It takes her by surprise how easily they can reconnect though something this silly, though she's barely said two words straight and none of them were kind.

"Now concentrate," he says.

"I am very concentrated," she replies, sounding dead serious. She watches as his hand then guides hers to the pan and helps her ease down the escalope in the hot oil. The dangerous action proceeds smoothly but the hot oil decides to squirt out of the pan anyway. She flinches and Damon pulls her hand away, raising it above her head to blow on it.

"You okay?"

"Why am I always the one that has to do the dangerous part?" she protests, purposely forgetting that he helped. She's trying not to think about how hot the contact feels. Her body is not used to it anymore and it's almost uncomfortable. It makes her body stiffen up a bit, though she tries not to let it show, to not hurt him.

"What do you mean _why_? You're my right hand," he reminds her, grimacing and blowing on her hand. Though he can feel the change in her body, she doesn't pull her hand away.

"I'm totally the brain, here," she replies, watching the veal in the pan turn a golden brown while her arm is stupidly raised above her head.

"Now, you're deluding yourself, witchy," he says with a condescending tone.

She rolls her eyes, reminding him starkly, "If I give you an aneurysm, now, you're _dead_ -dead."

"You are _so_ the brain," he concedes rapidly, making her smile, "I should call you Brain Bennett. Are you sure that's not your middle name? Let me check your ID. I can't believe it I did not–"

"Turn over," she orders, cutting through his aimless monologue.

"Why? Do you want to spank me?"

"I meant the veal!"

"Oh, _that_ ," he says, sounding disappointed but complying, "And here I thought you had gotten more interesting," he adds before taking a plate from the hanging cabinet above the kitchen sink. It feels colder without the shelter of his body behind her and the loss burns a little.

Damon places the veal on the plate, covers it loosely with a foil to keep it warm, and takes her hand again to grab the next escalope and brush it across the plate with flour. She's actually glad he didn't leave her a choice in the matter. She would have never asked for physical contact, because that would have been needy and embarrassing, but she hasn't been touched in so long. Aside from the occasional shoulder bump or holding the hand of a few occidentals during her travels to make introductions, she's never touched anyone. No one that was warm and alive, at least.

Barely two minutes later, Damon leaves her hand to add wine and shallot so that he can deglaze the pan. Her skin itches a bit but it's okay. He gives her the wooden spoon and then holds her hand again, helping her stir any crystallized juice left clinging to the bottom. They wait for the wine to reduce until it's almost dry. It takes them two or three minutes, during which he compliments her for her stirring capabilities.

"Such mastery, Bon," he says, sounding amazed. "Tell me the truth. You got admitted to the famous Stirring Academy while you were away."

"I didn't," she replies, faking offence, "They gave me an honorary degree."

" _Of course_ ," he agrees readily, "And what kind of things did you stir down there in the south?" he asks, and she can recognize that tone perfectly.

"Is this an innuendo?" she asks, untrustingly.

"Yes, do keep up," he replies, not missing a beat. "You got slow," at the same time adding the stock and the mushrooms.

"I think it's your jokes that got lame," she says, stopping the movement of the wooden spoon as he turns up the flame to make everything boil.

"And you insist on saying you're the brain, _ptsss,"_ he says, shaking his head and leaning his weight on the hands that he places at either side of her on the counter top, effectively trapping her, though he's not touching her.

There's some kind of fluttering in her stomach. It's been so long since the last time she really felt hunger that her body probably just hasn't adjusted.

"I am, and you should give up the sexual innuendos."

"I know, you're right," he admits with a sigh, "But it's hard, _so hard._ "

"You…did… _not,"_ she enunciates slowly, shutting her eyes and trying hard to keep herself from smiling.

"I…absolutely… _did,_ " he says, mimicking her tone. "Ah!" He turns the control knob to make the liquid in the pan simmer.

In a way, being human feels _lighter,_ because right now, in the kitchen, with the air fragrant with the smell of pepper and meat, the sound of fizzle and Bonnie's amused giggle, he suddenly feels like a thirty-something old man with a life to live and happiness just within his reach, but he can do that tomorrow and it's okay.

Up to now, Damon has been busy not to letting himself become a wreck thinking of Stefan and the way the walls seem to scream his name sometimes. He has been busy building the life he's supposed to have, been busy following an exact schedule, and he forgot to live in the moment. He never knew how to handle moments when he was a vampire. He had too many of them to really worry about not wasting them, and after he could hear the clock ticking, he decided to rush to the end before the end could catch up to him.

Today, re-connecting with Bonnie felt like climbing a wall. And from up there, he just realized, the view is _breathtaking_. He should enjoy it–the little changes, the little joys, that _something_ that makes people hang in there when it's all bleak.

"Let's set the table," he proposes and he opens a drawer and throws the folded table cloth in her direction, making her catch it. For a moment she seems taken aback but she recovers soon and grabs it just in time. Sometimes, he used to do that when they were on the other side, when he was trying to break through her mulling.

"Red wine," he decides, snapping his fingers and turning around to rummage through the cabinet. They set the table in silence, like they always used to do, and he turns to throw a look in the pan's direction. The liquid is syrupy and he rubs his hands together before going to remove it from the heat.

"Butter," he says, opening one hand like he's a surgeon asking for a scalpel.

Bonnie hands him a fork pierced into a square piece of butter. He swirls it in as she goes to take the sage. She lets a few leaves drop into the pan, then adds salt and pepper, but doesn't put them down immediately. Looking at Damon expectantly, he gives her a look, and she rolls her eyes and gives another sprinkling of pepper.

The creamy scent of escalopes is delicious and she follows him to the table as he puts down their plates. She pulls out her own chair and they sit across from each other. It's been awhile since she had a western meal, and a home-made one at that. She's not sure how her taste buds will react. Her self-sufficient body is not used to all this normalcy, this plain _humanity_.

Her fingertips are brushing over the knife's handle when he speaks.

"Are we good?" he asks, with a gentle voice. She looks around the table, checking it out. They have the wine, some bread and it's perfectly set. "I meant us," he adds, making her raise her eyes to his face.

His blue eyes are looking at her intently, seriously, hanging in the balance over her next words, vulnerable to any wound she could inflict on him. She's put him in this position and she feels guilty for it because he did nothing to push her away. She did that on her own, hoping to do both of them a favor.

She went so high, leaving a plane halfway between two worlds, that she forgot how to walk the earth, what her body is for. What her heart is for. And Damon is a crash course she needs to catch up on if she doesn't want to become unable to handle it. Deep down, a voice she refuses to recognize or hear is warning her that she must be careful, must be quick in going back to being the friend he knew or her own feelings will slip away from her and explode in her face.

Bonnie pulls her hand away from the knife, like one of them could bleed on the immaculate table cloth if she goes at this the wrong way. "We're good," she says, trying to offer him a reassuring smile.

Damon looks at her, trying to decide if he can believe her, and he seems to decide that he can because he smiles at her with sky blue eyes so warm she remembers that moment in the cave, when they were sure they were going to go back home together, leave the other side together, pull through together.

"Not that I would have returned my Best-Friend Badge, even if you had asked," he says with a shrug. "I take very good care if it. I polish it every day. You should see it, it shines like a mirror. I was just making sure it wasn't going to get too ugly between us," he explains, "Because I'm telling you, if you want it back you'll have to fight me for it," he warns, pointing the fork he's holding towards her.

"Like you would be so difficult to put down," she mocks him.

"That depends on which position…" he comments casually, gaining a surly look. He pretends to not notice and cuts a piece of veal to bring to his mouth.

She cuts her own veal. The meat seems to melt in her mouth, the buttery texture of it is such a pleasure that she chews very slowly to savor it. Damon is ridiculously good in the kitchen.

She enjoys the taste and licks her lips while she watches Damon pouring the wine inside her glass. He stops when a noise distracts him. It takes them both a moment to realize the front door opened and closed. They can hear steps and Bonnie turns around to see Elena appearing on the threshold of the kitchen.

Her friend's face seems to light up and Bonnie doesn't have a chance to consider the dark circles under her eyes.

"My God, Bonnie, you're back!" Elena walks to her, letting her heavy bag fall on an empty chair before hugging her. Bonnie catches the faint smell of disinfectant.

Though the embrace is sudden, Bonnie is not upset about it, does not feel uncomfortably shaken by it, and maybe, she thinks, it's a sign that she's already adjusting back to normal life.

"You should have told me!" Elena says, still holding her, "I wanted to welcome you at the airport."

"It's okay," Bonnie says, smiling when she rereleases her, "I wanted it to be a surprise." That's not exactly true, but she doesn't feel like sharing the details. For as much as she loves Elena, they've been apart almost five years, and even before they were too busy saving their necks to sit down and chat the way they used to; so, there are things she cannot tell her as easily now. Still, Elena keeps hold of her hand and sits down at the table, asking, "When did you arrive? I've missed you. How was Africa?"

"It's was gorgeous, but there's still a lot I want to see." She'll probably go back after their wedding, but that is not a conversation they need to have now. "I liked traveling alone. It helped me come into myself," she says, and sees Damon approaching the table with a plate for Elena from the corner of her eye.

He puts it down in front of her and her friend raises her eyes to him. "Oh, right, thank you," she says, angling up her head so that he can kiss her. Damon leans down, presses his lips to hers in a quick greeting that touches the corner of Elena's mouth. As soon as their lips separate she turns to her again. "I'm so busy, lately, I sometimes forget I need to eat. I'm doing my best but it's exhausting, thank God for Caroline. You know how she is."

"Yeah, she made a scrapbook for each of our weddings when she was little," Bonnie remembers fondly with a nod. "Of course hers was the prettiest, but I think she had a right to it."

"I'm so grateful you're going to help Damon," she says, taking her hand away from her to push back a strand of her short hair and take the cutlery Damon has placed at the sides of her plate. "I was hoping you'd be my bridesmaid but he's put his foot down on this. _Bonnie's mine, you can have all the others_ ," she quotes.

It's strange to hear that he considers her off limits, that she's _his,_ even if in a friendly way, and hearing the words spilling from Elena's mouth makes it all the more uncomfortable. She feels a little like the third wheel, though Elena is sitting between her and Damon, at the head of the table, and she ltes the ambiance turn light blue.

"Don't take it the wrong way, love," Enzo says, sitting next to Damon, on the side opposite Bonnie, "But I'd rather _die_ than be here right now."

"That makes two of us," she replies, making him chuckle.

Elena tells her about her courses, about her hectic shifts and a very competent doctor she admires. Her eyes seem to sparkle when she speaks about the woman, the long hours she can endure and her skills. She's so thrilled about the whole thing that Bonnie forgets the strange arrangement of the evening, the fact that she's basically imposing herself on a couple that's supposedly at the peak of their happiness.

After dinner Elena yawns and looks at the clock on the wall. "It's late, time for Cinderella to retire," she says, pulling herself up from the chair with a little effort. She looks pretty tired.

"Yeah, my jet lag is catching up with me, too," Bonnie says with a nod, standing from the table.

"So, you're both leaving me to wash the dishes, aren't you?" Damon asks accusingly.

"You should be a gentleman and actually _offer_ to do it," Bonnie suggests.

"I don't wanna make you feel useless, Bon."

"Oh, I'll bear it," she says with a sigh, "And in the meanwhile, I'll go take a shower."

"And I'll go back to the dorm," Elena says.

"The dorm?" Bonnie asks, confused. She thought Elena and Damon would be joined at the hip the moment she woke up, probably got married because a condom had broken during their sex marathon and she was pregnant with the first of a very long list of children. "Aren't you staying here?"

"It's actually easier for me this way, so I can squeeze in an extra hour to sleep. It takes an hour and half from here to the hospital," she explains, "And we decided it would be more romantic to stay apart 'til the wedding…" she says, smiling at him.

"Don't smile at me," he says, raising the dirty plates, "You two are making me do the dishes. You have no right to smile at me."

"Mostly," Elena continues, "you'll be the one to put up with him."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Damon remarks. "She'll love every minute of it," he says, placing the dishes in the sink before turning his head towards them and winking at Elena. "She might even steal me away."


	4. Chapter 4

**Note:** things are quite complicated for me lately, but I tried to squeeze in a bit of time and wrote this down. I'm still proceding tentatively, I hope you can be patient and still enjoy the ride. Leave a review, I need all the support I can get.

The light commotion she hears as sleeps brings her back to the little flat in the neighborhood of El Cairo where she lived in June, during the Eid al-Fitr, a festivity celebrated after fasting for the entire month of Ramadan which signifies thanks and gratitude for the Almighty Allah. Bonnie expects to open her eyes and see colored balloons in the sky, flying up from outside the El-Seddik Mosqua, as she looks out from the tiny window of the flat she rented. Instead her eyes barely catch a blonde breeze which tickles her nose as it falls above her on the bed. Caroline's voice is giddy and almost strident in her happiness as she hugs her just a bit too tight. Bonnie's eyes widen in the effort to breathe in and she can see Damon's face clearly as he watches the scene from the door. He's leaning against the jamb, arms crossed on his chest. One corner of his plump mouth seems slightly curved but she can't tell if he's smiling; at least, she can't tell if his mouth is, because his blue eyes are bright and they do smile at her, like they're telling her a secret.

"I'm so happy you're finally back! You need to tell me everything you did without me. I cannot believe you went on such a journey on your own, leaving me here behind like I'm an old woman!" Caroline laments. She smells a bit like freesia and musk. Damon doesn't say anything, just holds Bonnie's gaze, and if her own ever shifts away his remains. Damon's indolent pose and his look send a shiver running down Bonnie's spine as she pats Caroline's back with her hand to soothe her enthusiasm. Bonnie tries to cling to the notion that he is not a vampire anymore, that there's nothing about him that is a threat to her now – if anything ever was before – and yet the tingly feeling of an imminent threat is something she can hardly shake when their eyes meet. But, if her breath breaks inside her chest, she can blame it on Caroline. She closes her eyes to hide for a moment from his sight, to embrace and anchor herself to her friend. Damon remains as indolently beautiful and absolutely irking as ever.

Caroline grips her shoulders, pulling her into a sitting position to look into her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you were back? I had to find out by myself! Didn't you miss me?"; Bonnie just woke up and she barely knows where she is, she needs a few minutes for her brain to catch up but Caroline looks so bummed about it that she makes an effort.

"I swear I just needed to sleep off my jet leg before calling anyone to—"

"But you called Damon," she protests.

"Not really," he cuts in from the doorway, saving Bonnie the strain of speaking again. "Now, leave her be. She needs a minute to turn off her _zombie mode,_ unless you're a fan of the grunting conversations, then she's your cup of tea right now. _"_ And whentheir eyes meet again there's no mistaking the smile on his face, amused, endeared. She can recognize the thrumming in her veins, that _click_ inside, of a connection never severed, they are a team and they work like that. He knows when she needs her space, though he makes a point of invading it most of the time.

Damon enters the room and grabs Caroline wrist to drag her away while she pouts her way, and Bonnie waves her goodbye. Bonnie pushes the hair back from her face as she tries to rub the last traces of sleep away. She can hear the sound of her friends going downstairs and she knows she must be quick or Caroline will barge in again for round 2 _,_ she thinks with a light smile.

For a moment everything is light and warm. She can still feel Caroline's weight on her petite frame and can still feel Damon's presence undoing the space she's put between them for months. And yet, there was space, never distance. She doesn't know how she doubted their friendship in the first place. And there it comes, the sting of guilt, and she looks up to see the room taking a soft blue glow. She's about to speak, but Caroline's voice calling her from the head of the flight of stairs breaks the moment and every color comes back as it was before.

Bonnie drags herself out of bed, pulls back the curtain half covering her window and goes to take a shower.

When she joins Caroline in the sitting room she's her usual ball of energy, placed on an easel. She turns around with her big smile, bouncing on her heels like a jack-in-the-box and Bonnie can read the gigantic title of her new project, " _Wedding Mission_ ".

"I'm _so_ ready for this," she says, excited like it's her own wedding, "Aren't you ready for this?"

"Yeah, sure," Bonnie replies faking enthusiasm.

"Me too," says Damon, with even less cheeriness, coming from the kitchen with two cups of coffee in his hands. He hands her one and they both sit on the sofa ready to witness Caroline's exposition of her plan.

"It's like I'm with Debbie Downer and her wet blanket," she pans, giving them a bad look.

"Who's the wet blanket?" Bonnie asks, turning towards Damon.

"What question is that?" he asks back, "Do I look like a Debbie to you?"

"I don't know what you've been up to since I went away," she jokes with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face.

"Mostly listening to depressing love songs and wetting your pictures," he explains candidly, "You wanna know with what?"

"Ohhhh, you're disgusting,"

"I clearly meant with tears," he protests, faking innocence.

"Yeah, right," Bonnie says, rolling her eyes before taking a sip of coffee.

"Bon, I think your assumption might be Freudian, think about it, you clearly fa—"

"I'm here!" Caroline interrupts them, raising a hand like a girl asking for permission to go to the bathroom.

"Yes."

"Sadly," it's Damon's reply. He was trying to have his fun with this wedding, but Caroline likes to spoil it.

"I'm planning your wedding," she reminds him a little on the edge, "It would be nice if you could collaborate."

"On a scale of—" Bonnie's hand lands on his mouth and his word become a muffled, intelligible sound.

"Thanks," Caroline says, before smiling at Bonnie and resuming her role of director.

"I already know how to do this," she says, turning to look at the board, her hair opening like a fan as she turns on her heels, "if we split the tasks and proceed in accordance to my schedule, this wedding is going to be _epic_. You'll have to make an effort, skip of a few hours of sleep, maybe do some handiwork, but it will be totally worth it."

Bonnie knows this side of Caroline. This side of Caroline is scary.

"What about hiring a wedding planner?" Damon asks, gaining a dirty look.

"What?"

"He didn't mean it," Bonnie rushes to say.

"I absolutely did," Damon corrects her, but Bonnie's elbow hits his side and " _not_ " tumbles from his mouth.

"You think I'm so eager to invest my time in this, planning and supervising ever tiny detail until everything is perfect?" Caroline asks without waiting for a reply.

"Is this a trick question?" Damon whispers in Bonnie's direction, getting a "Shut up" in return.

"I'm busy with the twins and the school and managing my life of super-mom-slash-vampire-model, but Elena is my friend, and you – strangely enough – are my friend, kinda, and a wedding planner would never get my _vision_. I want you to have a magnificent wedding and you're going to have it. I will stop at _nothing_ for you to have it!"

"I'd be so touched if it didn't sound like a threat," Damon comments, "And what is my picture doing on that thing anyway?" he asks, pointing to the picture of him pinned on one side of the board. It's a Polaroid, a close shot of his surly face, eyes red because of the dim light of the environment. Above it, written with a blue marker, stands out the term _groom-to-be._

"It looks like a mug-shot," Bonnie comments, trying to hide the amused smile behind her mug.

"What is this, a police procedural series? Where's the yellow tape and the outline of the dead body?" he asks, sounding slightly offended.

"Don't be dramatic, there's Elena's picture too, see?" she asks, pointing at the opposite side of the board. Elena is smiling prettily in daylight, with flowers in the background like one of those pictures that come with the frame. The words _bride-to-be are_ adorned with flying hearts and glitter.

"Now, back to the important things," Caroline says. "I was thinking about a classy afternoon ceremony, with the setting sun behind you and a couple of doves flying at the moment of the exchange of vows."

"I'm not sure how I feel about this," he says, trying to visualize the scene. It's too sappy for his taste.

"You feel great about it," Caroline assures him ignoring his reluctance. "It will look so romantic, you two standing on the stage in the garden—"

"There's no stage in the garden," he tries to remind her.

"Not now, but there will be. The construction workers will be here in two weeks, you need to make sure they do a good job with the lighting," she shushes him with a hand. "A string quartet will play during the ceremony and the party—"

"Not really my style," he tries to tell her.

"Of course it is," she insists.

He's about to tell her that she's clearly thinking about the tastes of another Salvatore, but he can't bring himself to pour salt on their common wound. He misses Stefan, too, and he died so that he could do this, marry the girl he's been trying so hard to conquer and keep, and maybe it is only right to do this the way Stefan would have liked, so that it will be like having him around that day. He's sure even Elena would like that.

"Whatever, sure," he gives in, trying to just relax and let her manage the wedding the way she likes it.

"Since you and Elena decided to be apart until the wedding and go with tradition I think she should arrive directly in front of the gate, which will be open and waiting for her. I'll tell the coachman to be very precise about it so she won't stain her dress on the grass before the beginning of the ceremony."

"Coachman? As in _carriage_ , as in _horses_?" Damon presses, feeling like Caroline is about to turn him into a Disney prince.

"Exactly," she says with a nod. "And since we have such a nice mansion to take advantage of, she should have a gala. Elena will change into a beautiful evening dress but you can keep the same one. I mean, you're the groom. Nobody cares much about the groom."

"But my presence is still required, I suppose?" he jokes.

"How funny," Caroline replies bored. "I don't know how can you spend so much time together and not kill him," she says, looking back at Bonnie.

"It's not for lack of trying," Bonnie explains.

"But in the end she couldn't resist my charm and my cooking," Damon cuts in. The memory of last night, her tiny frame against his chest as they cooked together warms something inside. He can smell the scent of her hair still, the fragrant odor of myrrh and jasmine. The lack of that scent in the air had constantly put him off, like he was uncomfortable in his own life, but now things are back the way they were. He's used to moving from place to place, from century to century, and maybe it's something that comes with a human life, but he loves habits, now. Bonnie is like that, a habit. Like a glass of good bourbon he needs in the evening, like the smell of breakfast in the morning, like the brief moment he spends listening to the rumble of his car before going for a drive. She's like a habit, subtle, softly predictable, almost ordinary when she's around. But when she's not, it's like trying to walk with two left feet and…

Bonnie just clears her throat, like she'd like to disagree on that but doesn't want to get tangled into a pointless argument that will probably end up with them going in circles around private jokes that will irritate Caroline and make the morning even longer than what it needs to be.

"I picked a few caterers that might do, but you need to taste the cakes and pick one. Lately there have been lots of school meetings and kids parties and if I see another cake I might just throw up," she clarifies raising the palm of her hands dramatically.

"And you trust me with such an important decision?"

"Not really, but that's why Bonnie is coming with you. That way, you can't fuck up so bad," she says.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks, his interest seeming finally piqued.

"No," she frowns at him, and looks at Bonnie with pleading eyes. "But I still think that you should be a bridesmaid."

"Nope," Damon says, arm reaching out, stretched in front of Bonnie like a barrier.

"We're friends, we should do this together," she insists.

"You are," Damon adds.

"But it's not the same—"

"Don't care," he replies flatly.

"Bonnie—"

"—is mine, back off, now, and let's move along with this, shall we?" he asks, annoyed with her insistence. Bonnie stays silent, befuddled with their little argument. With herself, for letting Damon speak in her place like he has a right to it. But she promised him to be there, be next to him when he says the words, so she can't go back on him, now.

"The color palette for the wedding is fuchsia and gold, so remember that," Caroline is still sulking about it when she says "About the open bar—"

"Definitely need it," he groans without missing a beat.

The blonde girl checks the open bar on the list written on the board.

"I'll think about the florist and the musical entertainment," she says, listing that under the bride's tasks.

"We need to send out the invitations, immediately, because our guests need time to clear their schedules, pick the dresses and the gifts," she informs them. "I've had Elena going through a few samples," she says, reaching for her large shoulder bag abandoned on a chair. "Here's what she liked the most." she explains, handing a pile of invitations each.

"So, she liked them all?" Bonnie asks confused.

"Of course not. She was all difficult and I had to take out a few of her choices because they didn't match the palette…"

"They look all the same to me," Damon says, giving a fast look to the samples on his lap.

"That's because you can be such a man. You don't pay any attention to details," she reproaches him. "Some of them have a silver engraving, some are golden. This one has a frame around it," she says, showing him the card, "While this one has an oval, see?"

"Right," he nods, mostly to not have her breaking down in front of him. They still need to have breakfast.

"I'll find the coat check and the valet parking," she says, writing it down under Elena's picture.

Damon turns to Bonnie looking perplexed, and she does the same, mouthing, "Don't even ask."

"Did you write your vows already?" Caroline asks suddenly, making him turn abruptly.

"What?" he asks, confused for a moment. "No."

"Oh, well, there's still plenty of time for that," she decides. "Maybe you could talk about the first time you saw her, and what you thought, and how beautiful she looked. That is always so romantic."

"Yeah," he agrees with a nod, "Really beautiful, under the moonlight," he almost sounds dreamy. "I thought she was Katherine," he explains flippantly, and Bonnie's lips twitch as he continues the walk down memory lane. "It was quite the bummer discovering that she wasn't."

"You're killing the romantic vibe, here," Caroline deadpans.

"That explains the mug-shot," Bonnie comments, taking a sip of coffee to hide the smile.

"Nevermind, you two," Caroline frowns at them. She turns around with a patient sigh, the way she does when she needs to help and she ends up being a substitute teacher for a class of rambunctious kids.

"You'll have to pick the photographer, and of course Elena's gift—"

"She gets to keep me at the end of it, isn't that enough?"

Caroline shakes her head. Bonnie can't bother rolling her eyes. She knew something of the sort was about to leave his mouth. She should have put money on it.

"I'll choose the one for the guests, and the bridesmaid _. Singular_ bridesmaid," she adds, turning to him with an accusatory look.

He blinks unimpressed, "I'll pick the one for my best man," he says smiling at her to rub it in a bit more. Damon turns to Bonnie looking pensive. "I was thinking something timeless, artistic, that will be passed from generation to generation of feisty Bennetts, an unique piece like—"

"I don't want a portrait of you," she interrupts him, flatly.

"I was thinking more like a statue. Something like the _Barberini Faun,_ " he adds, raising his eyebrows suggestively. Bonnie is not a _connoisseur_ but she remembers that piece from a college class. She remembers the asymmetric pose, the contradiction of the graceless stance of a graceful figure, the nudity, the irreverence of the drunk satyr, reclined and seductively devilish with his double tail, languidly laid down on a coarse rock, seemingly innocent but powerful and compelling, with his spread legs and thrown back head. She can easily picture Damon like that and the image sends her heart speeding up and warms her cheeks.

"An engraved lighter will do," she says, trying to not sound frustrated with the picture in her mind.

"You don't even smoke," he says, displeased with such a boring suggestion on her part.

"Yeah, but if I set you on fire I need to explain how I did it to the police," she replies starkly. He's just so unbearable, so cheeky. She would like to slap that insolent smirk off his face.

"I'll make the hair and makeup appointments," Caroline interrupts her, now used to aimless wandering of their conversation, "and think about the guest book. You should go pick the wedding bands and your dresses. Remember the colors, it's important."

"Blue and silver," Damon says, just to spite her.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Yes, he is," Bonnie says, while Damon smiles lazily.

"Thank God you're his best man," Caroline decides, finally seeing the irreproachable logic of his choice. "I don't even want to think about what he'd do without you".

Damon knows what she means by that, but for a moment sometine inside realizes that, not him nor Caroline has any idea how right she is.


	5. Chapter 5

"So," she begins, but Damon's right hand lands on her, placed on top of her thigh and her eyes fall on it and then raise to his face.

He turns towards her slowly, with a conspiratorial look. He puts the index finger of his free hand against his own lips, "Shhh, we're not safe yet, she could come back."

"She won't," Bonnie reassures him, rolling her eyes at his silliness, "She's busy with school."

"You trust people too easily," he complains, "Only because she's your friend and you've known her all her life you think she'll spare you if the place cards are not in the right shade of gold?" he shakes his head gravely, " _Tzz, tzz_ , so naïve, Bon."

All the while his fingers are still gently gripping hers. Bonnie only realizes it because of the warmth of his skin, still so alien to her now that he's human. She tries to pull it back without calling his attention to her movement, unassumingly straightening the hem of her t-shirt.

"Place cards?" she asks back, with a concerned look on her face. "I don't think she mentioned place cards…"

"She's _forgotten_ , and now she's going to come back… I _told_ you!"

"She won't. I'll send her a message and tell her we'll take care of the place holders, too."

" _Or_ ," he piques, chin high as he illustrates his plan, "I could find us new identities and we can disappear from the face of the Earth."

"Great," she nods, humoring him, "There's just the detail about you getting married in less than a month."

"Yes, yes," he shushes her with a waving hand, "Sometimes life requires sacrifices, Elena knows. Ours will be a love that endures distance and time. She'll live in the sweet memory of my pelvic movements and one day she'll have a son she'll call Damon." he says, eyeing the board Caroline left in the middle of his living room.

"Can't you be a bit less graphic?" she snorts, grimacing.

"I was talking about my _dancing,_ " he objects, grimacing.

"Of course you were." Her tone falls flat as she turns her face away. She can't even bother to try and pretend she believes him. Since the moment she's back it's been a constant reminder of the man he is, of the way he knows her, of the way he cares. It's bothersome in a way his worse attitudes never were.

"You're cranky, your Judginess." He traps a strand of hair between two fingers and pulls it gently, "You must be hungry, I'm making breakfast," he decides, standing up from the sofa.

"We're supposed to go cake-tasting. I don't think having breakfast is a good idea," she calls as he's about to push the door that leads to the kitchen, "You _can_ actually get fat now." He stops in his step, turning around, one hand still flat against the varnished wood while he raises the other to point an accusatory finger towards her, "Take that back."

Damon's offended tone and the look of outrage on his face force her to fight the smile that threatens to appear. He's such an ass, always getting in the way of the thing she wants to do—leave him behind, be angry at him for more than five minutes.

Bonnie just stands from the sofa, giving him a triumphant smile and he tightens his jaw, following her out the front door.

#

The weather is still quite mild, but Bonnie rolls down the car window to inhale some fresh air and clear her mind from both the residues of her jet leg and the commotion of the morning. Caroline left them a list of possible choices for catering and pastry shops, but they are nowhere near Mystic Falls and they had to drive for half an hour before they arrive to their first option. Bonnie lowers the volume of the car radio to call in advance and make appointments, so that they won't have to wait too long.

It's a little shop squeezed between a hash house and a cubicle used as flower shop, the pastry shop is called _Bakery Les Fils de l'Artisan._ Damon walks right behind Bonnie and once she stands in front of the door he reaches his arm out, pushing it open, chest pressed to her back, so that they almost step inside together. The place smells like warm rum and looks quite simple, everything is colored in white and pastels, and there is a gigantic bee drawing on the wall. They wait in line as someone places an order for the following weekend and when their turn comes Bonnie offers a polite smile as the waitress looks at her from behind the display widow.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" the girl asks, hair pulled back in a simple braid for hygienic reasons.

"I called before…"

"Oh, yes!" the girl slaps her hands together, looking at them with a pleased expression, "You're the couple that needs a wedding cake—"

"Actually—" Bonnie tries to cut in but the waitress seems too enthusiast about taking about weddings to hear about her objections.

"You're lucky. We have a few appointments today for cake-tasting so we have a few ready for you to try, while for all the others we have a catalogue for you to look through," she explains walking to her left towards a cabinet. The girl opens one shutter and pulls out one plate and two forks. "I'm sure you'll find something of your liking…" she continues, gesturing towards a little round table in a corner of the shop "…please, sit."

A man comes out of the pastry lab with a tray of _éclair,_ puts it gently on top of the window display and goes back inside without looking at them.

The girl cheerfully places the empty plate and a ring binder in front of them, sitting one opposite the other, and disappears in the back of the show.

"Are _you_ going to tell her I'm not the one getting married?" Bonnie whispers, embarrassed.

"What difference does it make?" he shrugs distractedly, browsing through the pages. The pictures of the cakes are placed into sheet protectors and there's a sticker on the corner of each one, with the number of the cake. "If she likes to think that, let her."

She doesn't feel comfortable not correcting the misunderstanding, but actually, Damon is right. She sighs and leans over to steal a look at the pictures. Damon presses his fingertips on the plastic and turns the catalogue in her direction so that she can better look at the cakes.

"Wow," she says pulling back, "that's…" words escape her as she stares at the metallic cake, with a stylized and glamorous art-deco look, with seven levels, the first of which is covered in edible fuchsia glitter.

"A punch in the eye? The Kardashian's idea of elegant? The last thing you see before your retina commits suicide?" he supplies, crossing his arms over the surface of the table.

"Well…there's fuchsia in it," she tries.

"And a few metals of unknown origins," he adds.

The girl comes back with a silver trail and four slices of different cakes, "I see you're already going through our catalog," she says with a smile. "That's our _Hollywood Spark_ ," she explains, looking at the picture of the first cake. "It's highly requested by all the couples that pick an old-Hollywood theme for their ceremony, but the order must be placed with three weeks of notice, at least. When is your wedding?"

"Soon," Damon answers quickly, "We'll have to do without the Hollywoodian feeling," he adds faking disappointment.

"I'm sorry, maybe I can try and put in a good word…"

"Oh, no, I'm sure we'll find something else just as pretty," Bonnie says, raising her hands. Okay, it's not her wedding, but she can't – in good conscience – pick something this flashy and sleep at night.

"Okay then, take your time" the girl replies, politely, leaving them to their tasting.

Damon cuts the point of the first slice with the fork and brings it to his mouth while Bonnie turns the page to find something classier. In the second picture there's a cake completely white, the only spot of color is a yellow flower on one side and a black ribbon around the base, all the rest consists of three levels of sugar ruffles. It's simple enough but she's not convinced.

"What do you think about this?" she asks Damon while she's still looking at the picture.

"Try this," he says, instead, bringing the fork to her mouth to make her taste the cake he tried himself. The fork brushes against her lower lip and she automatically opens her mouth, tasting the sponge cake and the lemon curd filling.

"Not bad, but I wouldn't pick this one."

"Me neither," he decides, before stealing a look at the picture she was talking about one moment before.

"That's too…plain?"

"I think the same," she replies, turning the page. Damon digs into another cake, while her own fork lays clean and untouched next to her.

The next picture shows the _Country-Chic Happy Ending,_ a cake in two layers, the base is covered in large ruffles, looking a lot like a tulle skirt for little girls dreaming of becoming a ballerina, so she turns the page before Damon can see it and crack a joke about it. God forbid they choose it for the wedding, his comments would make Caroline's hair go white.

Again Damon feeds her a taste of cake, made with white chocolate icing and filling, and the addition of fresh raspberries. She savors it slowly, looking up at Damon to know what he thinks about it.

She studies him for a moment, before asking, "Too sweet?"

"Definitely," his taste buds are on a high since he was downgraded to the human state. When he was a vampire food never tasted this strong, they never had such complex flavors, and though he liked to cook he could never fully savor the fruit of his effort, unless his meal was alive. Now things have changed, and it's his sense of smell that has gone down the drain.

The fragrant, sugary air he's cocooned into makes it a good thing at the moment.

Bonnie is still turning the pages. Next comes a _Naked cake –_ Damon remembers reading about the on the front page of one of those glossy magazines Caroline left in his house – a deconstructed cake with filling on full display.

"It's the latest trend in wedding cakes," he explains, gaining a perplexed look from Bonnie.

"You even know latest trends in wedding cakes now," she comments, ignoring a sinking feeling in her chest, "You're really committed." It's probably her stomach protesting because she's trying to fill it way too late. It's almost eleven in the morning and all she had was coffee.

"I saw the word _naked_ on the cover of a magazine and it piqued my interest," he explains, "It's safe to assume that the interest died very quickly." Before feeding another piece of cake, "But this…" he says as she opens her mouth, pink tongue appearing behind her pearly white teeth, "This can keep me interested."

Bonnie savors it slowly before telling him that "it's delicious".

"I knew you'd like it," he says, sounding particularly satisfied.

"But it's black chocolate and orange. It clashes with the color palette," she piques.

"You live to crush my dreams, Bon."

"And I'm so proud of it I'm considering buying a bumper sticker," she informs him, going back to turning the pages of the catalogue.

"Oh, this is beautiful," she cries out ecstatically, looking at a painted cake, with Monet-inspired design.

"Yeah, but you can't have it," he says, "The palette is way too important."

"Shut up," she replies turning her attention to yet another cake. She stares at artsy, marbleized, stained-glass effect way.

"Maybe with the right colors—" she begins.

"It could appear in the next adaptation of _Beauty and the Beast,"_ he cuts in, gaining a dirty look.

"You say that like it's supposed to be a bad thing." She frowns looking down and turning the next page. Damon just stares at her with a grin. She might die once a year and take down the most nightmarish baddies, but don't touch her classics or she's going to sulk very hard at you.

The last cake he makes her taste is a hazelnut-almond one, filled with dark chocolate ganache, mocha buttercream and raspberry preserves. The very moment her lips close around it he informs her that "you're not going to like it".

"Why did you make me try it, then?" she asks, once she's swallowed.

He just shrugs his reply. "I'm really into feeding you things, I guess," without much thought. "Eating alone when your food doesn't kick and scream feels quite lonesome."

He enjoys making their meals. He likes having her back and sharing this kind of daily thing with her, though his loneliness never made him take into consideration the idea of filling her empty chair with anyone else. Caroline is his friend but still not his first pick for a quiet meal together, even if she wasn't on a liquid diet. Matt eats at the office, and he's still having trouble not picking on him for his humanity, though he's on the same boat, now. Alaric has such poor taste that he can't tell an asparagus from a zucchini, so eating with him is hardly an enjoyable experience. And yeah, dining with Elena is nice, with the right setting and some ambiance, and you know you're going to burn all the calories by the end of the night, but he doesn't want to think, now, about how it will feel translating that in a daily occurrence. Maybe because she eats like a bird and he feels frustrated with that, maybe because she's all compliments and it stops feeling good after the first couple of hundreds of times, or maybe just because they'll have a lifetime of eating together so it's stupid to fill their quota starting now. All in all, he's been waiting for Bonnie to come back to not be alone anymore at the kitchen table.

"Did you like it?" he asks as Bonnie steals a glance towards the waitress, to make sure she didn't hear him.

"Not really," she mutters, and he grins at that.

The familiarity they use in doing these kinds of things, predicting each other's reaction, reading each other's thoughts on their faces, doing small things for each other, it's something he can slip easily into, like wearing his favorite jacket. The love he's always known it's something you rip into and tear off, with teeth and blood, until it leaves you spent; while _this_ , this is _good_.

Bonnie writes down the cakes they like the most – just two of them – and a few fillings that could work, trying to imitate Caroline's meticulous organization scheme. Or maybe just to put her mind into something safe, something manageable, something that will occupy her time and her consideration of not blurring the confines around her.

They leave _Les Fils de l'Artisan_ and it takes them other forty-five minutes to arrive at their next stop, _The Cookie Encounter,_ large and pristine and run by a young couple. There are tables in one corner, and on the chairs sit pillows in the shape of colored macaroons. There is a plastic flow falling from one corner of the tables or the other, looking like dripping chocolate. Those are the only spots of color in an otherwise entirely white ambiance.

There are two couples already sitting at two different tables, tasting cakes and scrolling through a pre-printed sheet, checking-off text boxes and writing down colors. Since they don't see anyone else around Damon and Bonnie just go and sit at a free table and half a minute later a young woman dressed in a flowery blouse comes to greet them with an apricot smile.

"Hi, you must be the couple that called this morning," she says, without waiting for a reply, giving them the pre-printed sheet and a red pen, "We expected you sooner."

"Yes, we did, but actually—" Bonnie wants to explain the situation, because it's getting awkward by the moment. She's surrounded by couples everywhere and it's embarrassing. She feels like a fraud, sitting next to her best friend, accidentally playing the part of his lover in the mind of everyone that sees them, but Damon interrupts her carelessly. "Where it says _allergies_ , are we supposed to know that about every guest?" he asks, looking up from the sheet paper. Damon is not interested in giving explanations. He doesn't pay much attention to the platitudes, has no interest in them. "Can't you just give us an epinephrine syringe as a free gift when we buy the cake?"

Looking at him immersed in all that white, the blue of his eyes is so vivid Bonnie almost forgets where she is.

The woman chuckles and turns to Bonnie with a more genuine smile then the one she offered before, "Your fiancé is very funny," she says, "I'll be back in a moment with our cakes," she adds, rushing away to the back of the shop.

"This is something you were supposed to do with Elena," she says, her slumped posture giving away her aggravated mood.

"Yeah, but she's busy," he replies, sounding distracted as he watches the exhibit cakes.

"But she's the bride," she insists, feeling frustrated with all the misunderstandings piling up. "She should _want_ to do this." Before Kai put her down for a nap Elena's world revolved around Damon, and before that it revolved around Stefan, and now that she's about to get married and have the family she's always dreamed of while they were growing up, she bails on the preparations and leaves her to handle it. She can't handle it. She doesn't want to. She doesn't even know where to start.

"I am only asking you to eat cake with me. You'd think I've asked for your firstborn!" he protests through his teeth. Bonnie turns her eyes on him, feeling the slight of guilt. There is a palpable frustration in him, a sense of anger that feels so raw only when he's vulnerable.

"That's not what I'm saying," she replies, calmer.

"No, you're saying that the thought of someone imagining you in love with me is unbearable for you," he says starkly, trying not to look at the happy couples around them.

It is. It actually is unbearable. The white ambiance takes on a glowy blue shade. Bonnie lifts her eyes from the table top to meet Enzo's.

"This is what my worst nightmares were made of," he jokes, looking around.

"I love you," she says, half amused by his words, half saddened by the situation they are all in. She'd like to say more, but those words are all that come to mind. It's all she wants to tell him. It's what to tell herself. That they are still here, alone in their little world the way it was before Damon came back.

There's a soft smile playing on his lips, his eyes are sweetened by endearment. "I think we both know that I love you more," Enzo replies, leaning with his elbow on the table to wink at her. "Everything's okay," he reassures her, "Eat some cake for me, gorgeous."

She doesn't want to think about what Enzo's words meant while everything turns white once again. It didn't mean anything. He's always been like that— _I love you more_ , _I want you more_ —because he needed her to know that she was important for him. It doesn't mean any more than that, and if someone mistakes her role in Damon's life, it's no big deal because she knows better.

The waitress comes back with a tray filled with tiny plates and a little degustation of their selection. The lively icings seem to clash with the mood at the table but she doesn't notice it.

"I think you might enjoy thes—"

"Actually," Damon interrupts her, "We need to clarify something," he starts. "See, we are not—"

Bonnie reaches out under the table, squeezing his knee with one hand to stop him, "We are not sure those cakes fit our color palette," she says, preventing him from telling the woman the truth about them, "Our wedding planner was thinking about gold and fuchsia."

"Oh, that's fine," the waitress reassures her. "Whatever you like, we can change the colors the way it will fit your wedding the best"

"That would be perfect," Bonnie replies, sounding very relived hearing the good news.

"You can compile the sheet paper I gave you and keep it for yourself until you're ready to place your order, but don't forget to check the availability. Once you're sure, you can come here and give it back to me. We only accept checks and credit card."

Once they are alone Bonnie takes her hand away from his leg. Damon feels the loss and it's almost unsettling.

"What will she think now?" he asks somberly, before trying to crack a smile. "If she noticed your arm moving she's probably guessing you wanted to give me a hand job under the table."

Bonnie rolls her eyes and sticks the fork hard into a piece of cake in front of her.

"Ouch," he grimaces at the sight, amused by her violent reaction. Bonnie loosens up her hold on the fork and scoops up a piece of sponge cake, reaching out to bring it to his lips. He looks her in the eyes, brushes his lips together before half grinning at her peace offering. Bonnie's wrist moves back and forth in front of his mouth in a silent request to accept her gesture and he happily opens his mouth and lets her do all the work.

Damon chews slowly and looks at her as she tastes the cakes herself using the same fork., the way he did in the other pastry shop. He crosses his arms on his chest ostentatiously and she doesn't protest as she keeps feeding him the different kind of cakes.

On the sheet there are listed all the ingredients of the different cakes so that they can make a more informed choice. Every dessert must be requested with a different notice and there are different limits for the possible layers and colors.

"The illustrated cake is cute," she says, staring at it, "You can have them write your vows on it," she suggests, turning towards him.

"I guess it's a possibility," he answers, "Once I write them... Though, I don't know if it would get Caroline's approval."

"Mmm, probably not," she considers, "Or… you could go for the rosette cake," she tries again, "That's quite the classic." The design adds a unique, luxurious dimension without skimping on the elegance factor.

Damon uses the pen to scroll the lines to the times and colors available for the rosette cake but as he does so, Bonnie's eyes fall on one of the text boxes. "Oh, they make personalized sugar figurines to put on top of the cake!" she says, slapping his shoulder enthusiastically.

He turns his head amused, "Yeah, okay, okay, I seem to understand we _absolutely_ want them," he says, checking the box.

More possibilities for the design of the nuptial cake seem to be buttercream, geometric, monogramed and ombrè. Plus, there is the chance to have a trio, quartet or quintet cake, which could give a full display of the color palette.

When they leave the place it's little later than two in the afternoon and the only place left to visit is the catering that will serve the rest of the food. Bonnie is already full with all the sweets so when they arrive to their destination, Damon suggests leaving the car in the parking lot and taking a walk around.

His leather jacket is on the back seat of his Camaro and he grabs it before getting out of the car.

The weather is getting grey and gloomy. There's a light wind and it's a bit chilly. He's wearing a short sleeved t-shirt but he's not used acknowledging some basic variations in his body like any other human would. He never had a problem with cold before, unless he hadn't fed in awhile, so he just hands it to Bonnie when he catches her brushing her hands together trying to ignite some warmth.

They walk in comfortable silence for awhile until he breaks it. "I know you imagined doing this with someone else," Damon says, fists sunk into his pockets.

"What?" she asks, blinking at him and slowing her pace.

"Cake-tasting, and all that stuff that comes along when you decide to tie the knot," he explains, "I know you thought you'd do them with Enzo, one day, and it's hard for you now, but I'm glad I can do this with you, so…thank you."

His sudden moments of vulnerability always seem to sneak up on her and leave her stranded, at the mercy of his blue eyes. The jacket fits her loosely and he pulls at the neck of it to better cover her when the wind seems to pick up.

She doesn't know how to respond to that, except with "I'm glad, too," because in a complicated, self-destructive way, she truly is. Because she's dead set on sparing the feelings of someone that died and did find it in him to let her go, though she won't do it and yet not Damon's. Because he's her best friend and the fact that she could not imagine him involving her in his life the way he did before was what sent her packing in the first place. Next to him she was part of something, their little team, their own council, and then Elena came back and she didn't want to be around when the moment he'd cut her off would come.

She's not sure that it's not something she'll have to face once he's married and he must manage his limited, human time, but right now, she can only feel the warmth of his leather jacket enveloping her. It smells like him.

"Wanna walk some more?" he asks her with a light smile on his soft, pink lips.

Yeah, probably once he's a married man he won't have as many chances to be with her the way he did before, to do the things they did before, but they'll still be friends, he'll still nag at her every time she listens to _The Bodyguard Soundtrack_ and it's not like spending time with him organizing a wedding can hurt anyone, can it?

Bonnie only smiles back and nods her answer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Note:** This is a time for miracles, I wish forall of us many many miracles. Merry Christmas to everyone reading this. Technical note: the song used in this chapter is "I just know" by Jacob Lee.

#

Bonnie shivers at the change of temperature the moment she steps inside the Salvatore boardinghouse.

"Brrr," she purrs, letting her body tremble when she lets Damon's jacket slip off her shoulders. "The wind has really picked up," she comments brushing her messy hair with her fingers, "My nose has frozen up."

"You're such a delicate flower, Bon-B—" he cannot finish his sentence as he watches her back and the loose low back of her shirt – the movement she makes taking off the jacket makes him peek at the lace strip of her bra – because something seems to tickle him inside his chest. The feeling bubbles up to his throat, to his nose – it itches. And suddenly he sneezes, noisily, making Bonnie jerk in surprise.

Damon brings his hand to his face, covering nose and mouth with his long fingers, looking at her, bewildered. Bonnie's eyes are wide open as she stares at him. When seconds start to sink on her she blinks, asking, "Did you just… _sneeze_?"

"No," he replies in a rush, like a kid who's been caught with his hands in the cookies jar. "I don't sneeze," he protests weakly. His brain can hardly catch up to this new development.

Bonnie grins at him. "You _did,_ " she contradicts, trying not to giggle at his dismay.

"I never—"

"You never… _before,_ butnow you do." She's too amused to care about not laughing in front of him. "Oh, you're such a delicate flower, Damon!" Her laugh is bright, bubbly, something he hasn't heard in a while. It brings him back to the afternoons spent together before he had the brilliant idea to go and put himself to sleep. His stomach falls, he feels slightly breathless, and his cheeks feel hot. He blames that on the sneezing.

"You take that back," he threatens, pointing a finger at her, "Or I—"

"Will sneeze me to death?" she finishes, faking a horrified expression only to begin giggling again.

"That's it, you asked for it, Missy," he decides, advancing menacingly.

"Damon…" the sneer dies on her lips as Bonnie sobers up. She takes a step back, and then another when she sees him looking at her mischievously.

"Bon, I _did_ warn you, didn't I?" he asks, sounding almost mushy. Abruptly they start for the stairs, Damon running after her as she tries a breakaway to look for a refuge inside her bedroom. She's the quickest but he takes the stairs two steps at the time. Bonnie can feel his fingertips in the middle of her back when he reaches out to grab at her, but she sprints forward and rushes inside the room. She manages to turn the knob and step inside before his arm hooks around her waist, pulling her back towards his chest. A girlish scream escapes her throat, surprising her – a wash of color runs up the walls and the furniture making all brighter, the light bulb flashes out like a single heartbeat. The flare of light is so strong and unexpected they both shut their eyes in reaction. When Bonnie opens them again she's dangling from Damon's shoulder, looking up (down) at his ass, where her hands are looking for support.

Bonnie pulls her hands away immediately, closing them in two fists.

"What the hell Damon!" she protests, embarrassed.

"That should be my line, Judgy. I'm the one being sexually harassed here…" he says, trying to sound reproachful and disappointed, "I'm an engaged man and you're fondling me like there's no tomorrow," he protests, before adding, "Please, continue."

"Idiot," she mutters as the blood starts rushing down to her brain. "Stop the caveman act and put me down."

"Caveman, exactly. Virile and manly," he clarifies for good measure. "So who's the delicate flower now?"

"Damon…" she begins to protest.

"Nope, wrong answer. Try again," he says, walking calmly to the stairs.

"If you don't put me down I'm going to hurt you," she threatens.

"Uhh, I'm so scared," he replies, widening his eyes though she can't see him, "Or I _would_ be if it wasn't so completely against your witchy morale," he reflects aloud, stealing a glance to the side at her ass. "You would never do that to your human bestie. Poor, little, human me. For once, it seems to work in my favor," he says, stepping down the stairs.

"Poor human, my ass." He grins at that, walking to the drinks cart, mouthing, " _And what an ass,_ " without making a sound, before asking again, "I'm waiting, Bon. Who's the flower?"

"Ugh, me," she surrenders with a groan.

"Exactly. You. You're a _bouquet_ , a flower _arrangement_ , a _field_ of flowers, a _greenhouse_ , a—"

"Yes, yes, whatever, put me down!"

"You're such a cantankerous little flower," he says, obeying her. But the moment she has her feet on the floor again everything spins around her, the rush of blood leaves her brain making her sight spotted with black splashes and she trembles on her knees. She's forced to fist his shirt to keep herself up.

" _Whoa_ ," his voice is husky and amused as he steadies her with his hands around her waist. "Here," he murmurs above her as she closes and opens her eyes again trying to let her sight adjust. Her nose is one breath away from his covered chest and she can easily distinguish the warm, spicy smell of his skin, the leather aroma and the vanilla left behind by their trip to the different pastry shops. One of his hands slips up to the base of her neck to support her confused head. "You alright?" He's warm, in all the ways someone can be warm. It's enveloping, makes her dizziness linger on. Her fingers stiffen around the fabric they're holding as panic tries and grip her.

"Yeah," she answers, letting go of him and taking a step back. He smiles down at her, like he hasn't noticed any change in the air or her, but when she tries to slip away he follows her only to take her shoulders and guide her to sit on the sofa.

"What about a drink?" he asks, standing in front of her, almost like he's going to physically stop her if she tries to get away again.

"No, thanks," she replies, shaking her head, letting her eyes rest on the three piles of invitations. "I think we should get back to work," she says, reaching out towards the coffee table; but, Damon's fingers wrap around her wrist stopping her before she can touch the cards.

"We've been out and about all day, I've been the very model of the perfect groom to be. Now it's time to relax." He reaches for the remote control instead.

"Caroline won't be happy about it," she mutters, disapprovingly.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," he quotes with southern intonation, resting his arm on the blanket folded over the arm of the sofa.

Bonnie rolls her eyes, looking away from him for a moment before fixing her eyes onto his with purpose. "You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?" she asks him. He grins at her _Dirty Harry_ quote and steals a glance in her direction before sitting on the sofa and patting the cushion next to his own. She's putting on a bored expression and ignoring him, though she complies. Damon would like to pinch her nose, pull at a strand of hair, just so she'll glare at him with her pretty green eyes. Maybe physically fight him a little.

"They may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom!" he replies, and she must bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling at his stupidity.

"Oh, look, there's a rerun of Gladiator," he exclaims, " _My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions and loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next._ "

"Yes, then he kills Commodus and dies. _The end_." She pans, "Can we watch something else now?"

"Rude," he grimaces at her poor enthusiasm.

"We've watched this movie like a billion times already."

"And how many times did we watch _The Bodyguard_? Kindly remind me," he says, opening his hand next to his ear, like he's trying to listen to a far away sound.

"Well, we were stuck, and at least I have the excuse of a limited selection of titles, what's your excuse?" she asks, crossing her arms under her breast. She always gets offended when he shows less than the uttermost respect for her favorite movie, it's amusing.

"Your limited selection was the freaking _Blockbuster_ , and Gladiator has won five awards."

"For stuff like special effects and music," she laments, trying to imply something about the script.

"You say that like it's a bad thing when half your precious movie stands on a soundtrack," he retorts.

"A _superb_ one," she highlights, "And don't say you don't sing _I Will Always Love You_ when you're in the shower."

"You pay an awful lot of attention to my shower habits," he piques when he finds the ammunition he needed to redirect the conversation to a topic that would embarrass her.

"I don't need to pay attention. You hit the high notes like someone is skinning you alive. It's kinda impossible to miss."

"I'm very talented in much important areas," he says, almost like he's unconsciously letting the information slip. Actually, he _was_ talented in much more important areas. He wasn't bad at all when he was human, so eager he was to please and worship, and then time and _hard_ practice made him _exceptional,_ but he didn't have any need for air or recovery, all of it topped with superhuman taste buds and a bit of an oral fixation. Since he's become human he didn't try anything sexual, not with a partner anyway.

For how much he wants to make Bonnie blush, he's not going to open this particular door with her. It would be mortifying to confess to her that the lack of a sexual life has made him insecure. Oh, he remembers how it's done alright. It's much like riding a bicycle, but he's had to provide his own gratification in the last two months and the result haven't been exactly satisfying. It doesn't matter what kind of scenario he pictures in his mind, how long Elena's scent linger around him after she kissed him goodbye, making himself come is difficult, exhausting for all the wrong reasons and the whole process just threatens to dampen his mood.

In the beginning it was easy to tell himself that the human body just can't respond as readily as his vampire one, that a man needs much intimate stimulation. That got old really fast. He is as much a horny dog as the next man when it comes to carnal gratification. He thinks that probably all he needs is the real thing: Elena, warm and soft, begging under him. He thinks that maybe not knowing his own human bodily response to her makes it too foreign for him to reach climax with only what he can provide.

He thinks it will probably be fun rediscovering everything with her.

For how ridiculous it sounds – after bedding every pretty girl and sexy psycho he encountered on his path with no discrimination – he is… a _virgin_ now.

"Those areas do not interest me," Bonnie replies, rolling her eyes.

"You lead me to believe otherwise that time you barged into the bathroom while I was naked—"

"I told you!" she protests, sounding shrill and alarmed, "Your singing is awful and I thought someone was torturing you!"

Bonnie looks adorably frustrated, so much so he can even forget the slight of offence he felt at her disinterest for his _areas of expertise_.

"And I didn't see anything!"

"How is that possible?" he asks, bewildered. "I'm _big!_ "

She squeezes her eyes, grimacing, and Damon must bite the inside of his mouth to not laugh.

"God, Damon, can you stop being your usual braggart self?" she asks, exasperated by his attitude, eyes pleading.

"No, seriously," he insists, "I'm not bragging. I'm like… _this big._ " The moment he tries to estimate the length of his manhood using his hands, Bonnie uses her own to cover her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms into the sockets.

"I hate you!" she whines, while he silently chuckles.

"You try to, but you just can't." His voice is warm but there's some kind of sincerity slowly dripping over the words. Bonnie's mood sobers and she drags her hands away, slowly looking up at his face.

One corner of his mouth is up while he stares at her. When she least expects them, they come, these moments of vulnerability that just sneak up on her, making her want to cry or hold him, or both. Yes, she has tried to hate him, more than once. She has tried to distance herself from him, and every damn time he has made it impossible.

Every single time he has ignored her attempts at coldness, shrugged his pride away and just held on to her.

"I'll tell you what," he starts, light tone and abandoning the conversation altogether, "You close your eyes, point your finger over the remote control and press a button. Whatever comes up on the screen, we'll watch that. No fuss and no complaints."

"You _always_ complain," she mutters while he puts the remote control on the coffee table and guides her arm out.

"Okay, no fuss and _minimal_ complaints on my part," he agrees, instructing her, "Close your eyes."

She does as he says, pointing her index finger down, and when his hold leaves her wrist, she just drives the finger down. Damon pushes the remote control to the side, so that she aims to press on a different button then the one she was blindly aiming for.

He groans loudly, lamenting, "What the hell!" His act is not _that_ convincing, but because she's not looking at him but rather at the TV screen, he doesn't need to put effort into it.

"Yes!" she cries out, pumping a fist in the air. Damon crosses his arms over his chest, looking incredibly bored at the _'isn't that a wonderful beginning?'_ scene from _The Princess Bride_.

"See?" she asks, turning her head in his direction and looking adorably smug, "That's _karma_ for you."

He lets a smile creep up on his face only when she looks back at the TV screen.

After the first ten minutes she kicks her shoes off and pulls her feet up, tucked into the side on the sofa. She once absent-mindedly raised her legs, letting her feet rest on the edge of the coffee table and Damon was so upset about it they fought for half an hour, missing most of the movie. They had to rewatch it from the beginning as soon as it ended. He silently hands her the blanket folded on the arm of the chair and she uses it to cover her legs.

He doesn't know exactly when she ends up leaning against his side, but it's nice, cozy – he's not going to complain anytime soon. In fact, every muscle in his body seems to bask in the warmth of their closeness. He's so weary he could just live the next century in this exact spot, with a witch smelling like cotton candy asleep against him. More than once he decides he should get up and bring her to her bed but he puts off the task, falling asleep himself, cheek brushing against the top of her head as he tries to sink into a comfortable rest.

 _Guide my feet towards the alter_ _  
_ _Close my hands and wait for an answer_ _  
_ _I caught her, I caught her_

He manages to wake up around midnight, pulling himself up with some difficulty, suffocating a groan – his body protesting after being in the same position for so long – trying not to wake Bonnie in the process. Strangely, she feels suddenly heavier in his arms, but he doesn't mind because it makes it all more real. Her weight, her bones under his fingers, the smell of her hair when he arranges her head so that it will rest in the crook of his neck.

Damon lays her gently on the bed, covers her by pulling one side of the bedspread, and presses his palms on either side of her to lean down and distractedly kiss her forehead. He's so sleepy and tired he does not immediately realize that his lips linger against her brow. In a moment of weariness he just thinks he'd like to fall asleep next to her. Tease her about her snoring in the morning.

 _The world isn't big enough to live it on your own_ _  
_ _I see fire in your eyes and I feel fire in my soul_ _  
_ _You're gonna make it through this I just know_

But that's silly, so he drags himself away and undresses to finally slip between the covers.

 _Keep it in your heart, it's buried deep within your bones_ _  
_ _Don't you come home or I will never let you go_

The moment he wakes up he feels like someone has used his body as a pincushion. It's outrageous and humiliating to feel such pain at every movement he does, he thinks as he throws the covers back and rest his naked feet on the floor. His toes curl from of the cold, and he grimaces, uncaring of the discomfort. He doesn't process it, does not dwell on it, like it's a condition that's going to fade away in a moment – this general soreness does not belong to his body.

The slippers are nowhere warm enough for his feet but it doesn't matter. He should take a shower but he doesn't feel like it right now. Maybe after breakfast. His stomach slightly turns at the thought but he pays no attention to it, instead he slips on a shirt and rubs his palms against the length of one arm to ignite some warmth as he steps down the stairs and walks towards the kitchen. Bonnie is opening the newspaper, browsing through it to find the crosswords page and put it aside. She lifts her eyes to his face at his "Good morning," eyeing him almost suspiciously.

"Good morning," she answers, lowering the hands holding the newspaper. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," he replies hoarsely with a grin. It's kind of pained, though he does not realize that. The smell of scrambled eggs is filling the air. His stomach doesn't seem to like it.

"Right," she nods, unconvinced, "Not exactly what comes to mind looking at your face."

"Gorgeous?" he asks – rasping – his ego having the best of him. Not that he ever puts up much of a fight with it.

"What's this? Trying the sexy voice for when you need to make your wife forgive you for something stupid?" she asks.

"Why?" The concept of a wife, of a marriage, is so foreign to him, right now. His brain is a bit fuzzy and he feels like his mood is about to drop, "Is it working?" he asks with a grin, trying to joke.

"I suggest more practice," she replies, bored, "And while you're at it, we can have breakfast," she adds standing up as he sits at the table.

He grimaces at the idea, the mere word causing his body to go into a cold sweat. Damon rubs one hand over his face, minimizing his own reaction. "I'm not that hungry."

"Okay," she gives in, "What about something warm? Tea, maybe?"

Bonnie seems eager to have him ingesting something which he automatically accepts.

"Okay, sure," he rests his head against his hand, elbow propped up on the table. He is usually much more pedant about good manners, but this morning he'll make an exception, "No sugar."

"I know," she says, "I'll put in some lemon and honey—"

He is ready to make a fuss about it, his face already contorting in a frown, but she insists, "Just try, okay?"

"If you insist." Damon just sighs and surrenders to the request, "But I'm making a sacrifice here."

"You're a real hero," she says, dramatically.

"Totally," he nods slowly so that his stomach won't be upset by the movement. It feels hollowed out and yet unable to accept anything. He really doesn't want to think about that, so he tries to distract himself somehow. "What do we have on our schedule? Photographer?"

"I think it might be a bit too early for that," she says, turning her gaze in the direction of the clock on the wall.

"Nonsense, it'll take awhile to see them all and decide. Without counting, Caroline only listed people that are at least half an hour from here."

"Yeah, but I'm still a bit tired from yesterday," she let slip, cutting a slice of lemon and putting it in a cup, "I wouldn't mind taking it slow."

It takes a long beat for him to reply. "You know I'm more of a _hard and fast_ type, but I'll be considerate." Bonnie doesn't even roll her eyes. She really served him this one on a silver platter, and he responded to it way too slowly. It's obvious he's sick, probably a light cold, and she needs to convince him to go back to bed before he generously starts to spread his germs.

"Gee, how romantic of you. Elena is so lucky," she says unenthusiastically, dropping a teaspoon of honey into the cup. It rubs him the wrong way, but he's too tired to have a reaction to that.

"You wanna watch Gladiator?" she asks, pouring the steaming water into a cup.

"Feeling guilty for making me watch that kiddy movie, _again_?" he asks, proud of himself for the way he made it look like he didn't expect that outcome from that night. It's not like he'd planned it. He just happened to remember it was supposed to air and pushed her good luck a little to make her happy.

"You _love_ that movie," she protests, putting the steaming cup in front of him.

"I can stand it, _at best_ ," he insists. Yeah, okay, he loves that movie, but he loves the way Bonnie loves it more. There's only so much _preparing to die_ he can take. They all died enough. Some did not make it back.

"So? My offer won't stand for long," she says, "And I really feel tuckered out after yesterday." she lies again, for good measure.

"I clearly am your best, best friend in the whole damn universe," he says, waiting for her to agree.

"That's what's written on the badge, isn't it?" she asks back, a light smile softening her pretty face.


	7. Chapter 7

He leans against the headboard, one pillow crushed under his elbow as she goes through the short pile of DVDs stashed under his TV. He made such a fuss when she suggested he put a TV in his bedroom, stating that such devices could only diminish one's sex drive – not his own, never his own – but his bed partner could take it like a silent invitation for skipping the sweaty part and instead jumping to something ridiculous like watching movies in bed and _cuddling_. If one doesn't count the dirty talk, Damon is not one for conversation in the bedroom.

"Get under the blankets," she tells him as she walks back towards the bed.

"This bossy attitude will make a man very happy one day." He jokes, obeying her. He's actually starting to feel a bit cold, right now. She doesn't bother to reply to that. It seems so alien to her, the concept of another man in her life. She turned to Enzo because he knew what it felt like to do his best and still feel cut out, still feel like no one really needs you, if not for practical purposes; and now, the idea of letting go of him, of moving on and forgetting about him, makes her feel _guilty_. And who could be stubborn enough to climb her walls? Who could understand what it means to have a heritage so great, a power so strong, being the last of a bloodline that needs to survive, not only for its sake but for the world? The other option is to conceal a part of herself that would force her to live a crippled life, have a crippled love, and that's worse than being alone.

"Shut up, the movie is starting."

"Kick off your shoes before you dirty my blanket," he tells her, making her roll her eyes.

"Who's the bossy one?" she asks, doing as he says and brushing her cold feet together to ignite some warmth.

"If you like it, I can go full _dominant_ on you. _"_ And as he says it he reaches out his hand to grab one of her feet and rub a finger against it to share some of his body heat.

"You're very hot," she notices immediately.

The meaning of her words go over his head with his blessing. _Pff_ , he's totally fine.

"Your flirting isn't very subtle, Bon-Bon," he grins as she presses one hand on his forehead and slides it down over his cheek and towards his pulse point at the base of his neck. She lingers, dazed for a moment, with lowered eyes so he won't read her. Her hand is refreshing and he has to suppress the need to actually purr at the contact. He might feel tired, but she smells very good, and her skin is so soft, and he's in a dry spell, and this might just backfire on him.

"What do you say we skip the chores today and just stay tucked in?" she asks, hopeful, "We can get back to our schedule tomorrow."

"And play doctor?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in his signature suggestive manner, "Who am I to say no to a lady?"

He's always liked being the immortal stud, strong and unstoppable, but that never got him many benefits with someone like Bonnie, so used to taking care of everyone. Oh yeah, she was always pretty adamant in saving his life once they got to forcefully know each other, but he never got to enjoy the fussing and the caring. Suddenly humanity is really starting to grow on him.

"If you don't shut up I'm calling Elena." She sighs, exasperated. At least he's got his wits about him. He might not feel so bad if he can still joke about sex. "She and her colleagues can have fun and use you as a guinea pig for their courses."

"Ugh, might sound exciting but, I assure you, group sex is messy and confusing," he states, sounding disappointed, "I only made one exception with these twins in the seventies—"

"Oh, my God," she grimaces at the idea, "It's disgusting"

"They were so tight. It would have been rude of me to refuse one in favor of the other," he explains. "It could have potentially ruined their relationship," as if that changes everything.

"So thoughtful of you," she replies, bothered. He's been living so many lives before they even met, and he'll live another one – the last one – with Elena, and for him to share his sexual _exploits_ like this should not feel so uncomfortable. At least, she should be used to it by now.

"Very kind of you to notice that." He slides lower to rest his head on top of the pillow.

"Very," she cuts him short before he can take another gross detour down memory lane. "Now, watch the movie before I change my mind and put on _Legally Blonde."_

"Empty threat. I don't have it."

"So naïve. This is the internet age, buddy," she smiles as she watched the screen, "I can download anything you don't like in a few minutes. I'll tie you down to the bed and make you watch chick flicks until you drop dead." That would be so funny. The plan seems brilliant even to her own ears. She'll start with _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_. Yet, by this point he should have made a remark about her desire to tie him to the bed, and it stings a bit to not have him jump at the chance to embarrass her. She tries to not look disappointed when she turns her head over her shoulder to eye him, and that's when she realizes he's asleep.

Bonnie can feel something tug at her heart, it is painful but in a nice way. His face is turned in her direction and she lowers herself on the bed to better observe him. His breathing is slightly more rapid than her own. He looks paler and she presses her fingers to the pulse point of his wrist.

 _There goes my heart beating_ _  
_ _Cause you are the reason_ _  
_ _I'm losing my sleep_ _  
_ _Please come back now_

It's still so new to her. It seems to make him all the more real, and once again she feels a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach. His fingers instinctively wrap weakly around her hand. Her heartbeat speeds up and she stops breathing, like the sound its making can possibly wake him up and make him subject her to his merciless teasing.

Bonnie thinks, as her walls inadvertently lowers, that she would like to hear his heartbeat from up close, would like to press down her ear against his chest and feel the strength of it calling to her.

She takes her hand away slowly, so as to not disturb his sleep, and holds it against her chest like he could snag it away any time. Or maybe, a voice in the back of her hand suggests, maybe she's just scared that she's going to touch him; trace the bone under his defined brow with the tip of her finger, the long, dark eye-lashes, the pinkish lower lip.

Right now, exhausted, feverish and defenseless, he is as impossibly _pretty_ as they come.

"You're such a jerk," she whispers warily, waiting for him to open his eyes and reveal that this is a diabolical plan on his part aimed to make her admit that sometimes, occasionally, she thinks she could possibly let herself feel for him something she should _never_. But he just keeps on sleeping, and even so he's putting her on the spot, like the pompous asshole he is.

 _There goes my mind racing_ _  
_ _And you are the reason_ _  
_ _That I'm still breathing_ _  
_ _I'm hopeless now_

This wedding will never come soon enough, she thinks, getting off the bed, annoyed, and abandoning the remote on the blankets. The moment she turns the knob to leave the room, the light turns softer, gloomier and she turns around to see Enzo sitting where she was, back against the headboard, feet crossed at the ankles and boots on the blankets as he stares at the TV screen . Damon would be such a pain about that if he could see it.

"Bring back some popcorn, will you, love?" his tongue rolls easily off his usual term of endearment and it makes the scene all the more ridiculous.

"What?" she asks, bothered by his attitude. "I have no intention of coming back into this room. If you are so eager to be with him go ahead." She wants to leave the room, possibly this side of the planet, and Enzo should be all about that.

"Com'on. I haven't watched a movie in awhile," he considers with a shrug. "What's the rush?" he asks, looking oblivious, turning his face to give a distracted look to the sleeping man next to him. "He's kind of cute… when he's unconscious and keeps his mouth shut, isn't he?" he asks, grinning at her. Because he has no idea how tormenting the man can be even when silent.

Oh, yeah, she can just picture that. Being on the bed, in the middle of Damon and Enzo, trying to not fall from the edge of the razor blade she's walking on, constantly trying to not precipitate. It's like a horror movie waiting to happen, and the black girl never survives in those.

Bonnie crosses her arms under her breasts, affronted. The lack of air from both the presence of Damon and Enzo's shadow makes her want to run away. "If that's what rocks your boat," she says with a shrug and she can hear him laugh as she leaves the room, barely managing to avoid shutting the door behind her.

Enzo is supposed to be her safe place, her safety net, the one that will always stick by her and be in her corner. Instead he's being a pain in the ass, suddenly wanting to play nice with someone that ignores when he is even around.

As she walks away from Damon's bedroom, the blue begins eating out the cream of the walls. In her peripheral vision, she can catch Enzo falling in step next to her.

"We are susceptible, today," he says jovially.

"We aren't," she piques back, shutting the door in his face as she steps inside her room. Of course, it doesn't do much, for he is sitting on her bed when she turns around.

"I thought you wanted to watch a movie with Damon," she says, faking amazement, "Maybe put your arm around his shoulders during a very dramatic scene…" just to turn around and open a drawer of her dresser.

"You're scared of competition, baby?" he asks, amused.

"Don't _baby_ me," she replies reproachfully, without even bothering to look at him, pulling out a pair of jogging pants, "I wouldn't dare interfering in your quality time with Damon. Everyone knows you loved him first." She adds, heavy with sarcasm, biting her lip when she realize the implication of what she said. She does not love him, not in that way. It's just that sometimes the lines between them blur and no matter how hard she looks for them, she can't find them anymore.

"You're running, gorgeous?" He's not talking about her jogging but she's angry and unwilling to delve into it, so his question easily eludes her.

"Hawk-eye. Nothing gets past you, does it?" She puts on her thermal, long-sleeved cobalt shirt. "Clearly, Marvel doesn't give you enough credit." She makes sure to slip the thumbs into the holes of the sleeve before pulling the elastic fabric down over her bust, leaving him to stare at her naked skin for a few moments longer. She's in the mood to retaliate for him not understanding what she needs him to do, what she needs him to ignore.

Enzo grins melancholically at the scene. He would like to hurt for her to feel better, he would like to disappear for her to be as happy as she made him, but she's not ready to let him go. Not yet, though her thoughts do not hold the same power over him anymore, for her heart is trying to take the reins from her reason.

He whistles appreciatively but when she turns around he's not on the bed anymore.

"Go!" she almost yells, irritated by the fact that he has not chosen to stay when she wasn't capable of keeping him there. "I don't need you!" But she regrets her words the moment they leave her mouth. She hopes he didn't hear the words, wishes she hadn't said them, because she can't swear it's not true.

Bonnie pushes her frustration aside, pulls her hair up in a ponytail and dons the rest of her jogging clothes, slipping in a pair of ear buds to help her concentrating on her body moving, on each muscle contracting and pulling. It's something basic and controllable, something that makes her feel like she has a better grasp of herself, a sense of the direction that she's actively taking. Her life is just a concrete road, then, just a path in the woods. It's the distance she can cover with her feet which hit the route logically chooses.

And yet there's something following her, a feeling that seems to use her as a means of transport, something heavy trying to anchor her down, and it only makes her run faster in the useless effort to leave it behind.

At some point, during her hour-long run, she manages to feel better, more in control, because she's handled much worse, died quite a few times and got herself back on her feet again. The fact that she's back in the town where she was born doesn't make any her less a grown woman, and she's going to perform her duty and then be on her merry way for a place where she can be whatever she wants, whenever she wants, even a woman with a ghost as a boyfriend helping her to pass the time until she's seen enough that she feels like she can go without regrets.

When she gets back to the boarding house she takes her time under the shower and then heads down to prepare something to eat. She's not sure what Damon feels like eating in his state, and maybe he has woken up and gotten a bite without her because he was hungry and she wasn't around. It's not like he can't survive if she's missing for an hour or two. He's managed so well without her during the last few months and he's chosen to be without her for years before coming back with flowers and a sorry-ass excuse for his absence, so she's not going to worry about something so stupid.

Out of courtesy she takes the stairs and goes to his room, knocking softly before cracking the door open and looking inside. On the TV screen the final titles are rolling down and he doesn't answer when she calls his name. She steps inside against her best intentions, because she's still the kind of person that will worry for anyone, so it's inevitable for her to worry about her best friend.

"Damon?" she calls again, softly, looking down at him. His cheeks are pinkish, his skin glowing in an odd way. She uses her palm to brush away the hair sticking to his forehead and she feels her own skin burning with his fever. His breath is harsher, she realizes, and he still won't wake up.

"Damon?" she calls again, this time louder. His eyes seem to fight to open, his lids dragging themselves up, but he seems to give up halfway each time his eyes are almost open.

"Bon," he says, feeling her hand on his face, slipping down to cup his cheek, "Can't take your hands off me, huh?"

She's tempted to relax and ignore the worried feeling in her gut, just out of spite for making her heart swell in her chest at the sight of his new vulnerability, but looking at him feels a lot like being pinched with a fireplace poker.

"I don't suppose you have a thermometer stashed somewhere…" she says, mostly talking to herself. She should go and buy some supplies, but maybe she should call Elena first. She didn't rely on her when her life was on the line, but Damon has a cold and she's about to call her friend for help – it does seem quite ridiculous – so maybe she should wait.

"Your clothes look drenched," she notices, touching the neck of his shirt. "Do you own pajamas?" she asks, still trying to decide what to do first. Make him eat? Help him change? Call Elena? Go to a drugstore? She sits on the edge of the bed, right next to his hip, her hand holding his involuntarily, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand. "You should drink some water," she decides, standing up in a jerk.

"You're worrying," he says, words dragged out by sleep and exhaustion though his hand uses the little strength he possesses to not let go of hers. He doesn't even try to open his eyes.

"I'm not," she denies, sitting down again, "I'm organizing a line of action."

"I can hear your mind worrying." He makes an effort to look at her, and though he looks kind of pleased with it, he insists, "Don't worry," like her peace of mind is a more pressing matter, and then closes his eyes, falling easily back into sleep.

She feels like he's just pinched her heart with his stupidly long fingers. _He's kind of cute… when he's unconscious and keeps his mouth shut, isn't he?_ She can hear Enzo's voice, though they are alone.

Bonnie lowers her eyes to see his fingers still weakly gripping her own, her thumb draws a circle over the back of his hand and she needs to stay still for a few moments, just letting their hands touch like this, before she leaves him to get a bowl of cold water and a couple of towels, placing them on the nightstand next to him.

Bonnie folds one towel lengthwise, soaks it in the water, and wrings out the excess to place it on Damon's forehead. She does the same with the other towel, using one end of it to press it on his pulse point at the wrist, gently turning his hand in her own to use the towel to freshen the skin of his palm, the back of his hand, the length of his muscular, wiry arm, following a green vein which looks more apparent under his pale skin.

It's a simple task that she performs slowly, tenderly, for long. She only stops when she accidentally hits the clock on the nightstand and looks at the hand pointing at the hour. Once he gets better she'll get angry at him for turning her into this mother hen, this private nurse (he'll probably make a dirty joke about it) so devoted to his well being, and she'll get angry at herself for forgetting how just one hour ago she was supposed to be a woman that would only move forward, to know the world and squeeze every ounce of novelty and power out of it, so that she can say to Enzo one day that she has truly lived, but now, right now, she shrugs every doubt with ease and she walks down the stairs to get a bottle of water and make him some chicken soup.

She has to call him a few times before he makes some sound of recognition, still refusing to cooperate.

"Com'on, wake up," she insists, "I need you to take your shirt off," she adds, softening her tone, trying to lure him to open his eyes.

"Huh?" that gets his attention, and he opens his eyes to look up at her. Bonnie places a fresh shirt on his lap and slips one arm under his back to help him up as she uses her free hand to provide some leverage against the mattress. Her arm, compared to the size of his upper body, is short, so their chests press together in the effort to help him sit. "God, you're heavy," she laments to ignore the hot, sweaty sensation. "Help me." Shehopes he'll make more of an effort, but he just circles her body with his arms and lets her do all the work.

"I'll have you know," he says, trying to grin but failing miserably, "that sexy nurse attire would have been a better motivation," and she rolls her eyes at that.

"Whatever," she replies, slightly breathless, "Now let's take this off."

"Bold Bonnie," he comments as she takes the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off of him. He manages to sit straight for the few moments she needs before resting his back against the head of the bed. He's so tired he doesn't even bother keeping his eyes open.

The long, dark lashes only fly up when he feels the cool sensation of a towel pressed gently against the skin of his collarbone. His blue eyes quietly studying the way Bonnie concentrates on the task at hand, never looking at his face, biting her lower lip every now and again as she dries the sweat off his skin, along the lines of his defined pectoral muscles. Damon wants to make a joke about it, to break the moment and feel less like an asshole, but he doesn't out of fear that she'll stop touching him.

She uses one finger to push back a strand of hair that fell over her eyes and pulls back to tell him, "I need to do your back." Bonnie moves, pointing one knee into the mattress as he pushes his body forward to give her space. Damon rests his elbows over his thighs and let her slip in the small space behind him, feeling her lap pressed against the small of his back. The closeness is nice and he enjoys it silently so she won't have a reason to take it away from him, but it lasts briefly before she decides he's good enough to put the fresh shirt on.

Bonnie helps him dress, and he protests, "I'm fine, you know, I'm not handicapped or anything," but only once he's halfway inside the shirt and she ignores him like a pro. Bonnie pulls down the shirt over his stomach, hand brushing against the skin under his navel, and he can feel the slight quiver of muscles reacting, making him groan. Her eyes grow larger as she looks up to his face and he grimaces. "I feel like someone's been beating me up… but the only time I forced myself was last night when I've brought you up the stairs to put you to bed… I think you should consider going on a diet," he jokes to cover up his uneasiness.

"Shut up," she protests, giving him a surly look, "I'm very light and you're a rheumatic old man."

Damon smiles at that, at her endearing frowning mouth, at the way his chest warms up in a way that he likes too much. He's not used to think of himself as weak, not physically at least, and his pride refuses to consider the possibility, but Bonnie doesn't make it look like such a horrible thing.

Maybe he can really do this, grow old and rheumatic. Maybe he can. It doesn't look half that bad right now.

#

 **Note:** the song I used in this chapter is "You are the reason" by Calum Scott. I know I write slowly, if you read my profile you'll know how busy I am, but please try to be supportive and patient.


	8. Chapter 8

Time just passes unnoticed as Bonnie takes care of him, and his lashes tremble under her delicate touch. His breathing appears difficult, he coughs and she helps him up to put another pillow under his head and have him rest in a better position. She opens the window and leaves it ajar to allow fresh air into the room, then tries to have him ingest a sip of water. He tries to comply but he squeezes his eyes into two slits as he swallows.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, one hand pressing on his forehead in an automatic gesture.

"Wonderful," he says, but his voice cracks in the effort and the grin looks more like a grimace and she's just anxious to do anything so that he won't be this miserable. When he was a fuck-up vampire, pain didn't last long and so was her effort not to let herself be affected by him. Now that he's human, it's impossible not to let his suffering chip away at her stoic attitude.

"I'll go make you something warm to drink, okay?"

"Sounds great," he replies with false enthusiasm as she goes to pull the curtains closed to give his eyes a little relief from the light.

Bonnie disappears into the kitchen to make an infusion – she just hates to have to just sit and wait. For awhile it's all she did when her mom left her. It's all she did whenever her father left for one of his business trips. And she has learned that waiting around does not help. Waiting around for a miracle to happen, it's stupid and she should make the miracle happen herself or just move on. Which she did, she moved on, and when that didn't work out she moved away. And yet here she is again, waiting for Damon to get better, waiting for Damon to get married.

For her, harder than the loss and the solitude, is the waiting. They have it all wrong when they say that time helps healing, for time is inclement and cruel and all it does is pass.

She sucks at waiting around – for things to happen, for things to change, for things to get better –but you fight your battles when they come, and you learn to wait when you must.

Right now, there're still some sensible things she can do, so she picks up her jacket, Damon's car keys, and leaves the house. The sound of the dry leaves, bronzed by the change of season, crushed by the tires, offers a strange peacefulness as she leaves the Salvatore's driveway. Damon would make a fuss if he knew she had taken his beloved baby without his permission, but though he likes to make a show about how difficult it is for him to trust her at the wheel of his car, he has actually let her drive it a couple of times as he stretched out on the passenger seat with the wind ruffling his hair in the most commercial-like way humanly possible with the pair of aviators she brought him back from the other side.

"Elena, it's me," she says, keeping her cellphone pressed against her ear using her shoulder as she pulls up to the double doors of the store. "Listen, I can't believe what I'm saying but…" she starts as she looks around for the right aisle, "Damon has got a bit of a cold. Maybe you could call me and give me instructions on how to make your fiancé survive long enough to marry you? I mean, if I were you I'd love to inherit the house," she jokes, so that she won't notice that strange twisting at the bottom of her stomach. That's just her being worried about her best friend's health, and it has nothing to do with the way the word _fiancé_ weights on her tongue, she tells herself as she scans the shelf for a syrup, finding herself stressing about the flavor because Damon is that pigheaded that he would refuse to drink it if it tastes bad.

A woman in a flowy, long jacket giggles as she stands next to her checking the ointments for burns, and her blonde child tries to pull her in the direction of the snack aisle. Bonnie turns her eyes towards her, slightly self-conscious and the woman just smiles at her with a knowing expression.

"Fussy child?" she asks, with the tone of _been there, done that_.

"Uhm, he just has the personality of one," Bonnie mutters, amused by the situation.

"Oh, man-child, I can totally understand," the woman nods, "They all regress at some point," she explains with a sigh, pulling at the kid's hand, admonishing her to "Keep quiet for a moment, okay? You'll have your cookies, I promise."

She's letting the tube of ointment fall into her plastic basket when Bonnie has the guts to ask, "Which one tastes better?" as she holds in her hands two different bottles of syrup. People get addicted to this stuff, but she really can't understand why. Last she remembers, they just taste disgusting.

"This tastes like fertilizer," the woman says, pointing her finger at the bottle that says ' _Honey and lemon flavor_ ', her lips twisting into a disapproving expression. "And I mean straight-up industrial-grade fertilizer," which for a second makes Bonnie wonders how she knows so well the taste of industrial-grade fertilizer.

"I get the idea," Bonnie says putting the bottle down immediately.

"This one tastes like honey," she says, pointing at a different bottle, "But the kind of honey that can appraise a catatonic taste bud. I remember my son being able to keep it down only once when his fever was so high his taste buds were burnt out, after that he threw up on my favorite sweater. Rest in peace."

Her explanation is totally sensible but leaves Bonnie with no option to choose from, until she scans the shelf again and picks a plastic bottle with a dark red – almost black – liquid and a white, red and blue label, which reads 'Nighttime cold & flu'. "This tastes like cherries," she says, before lowering her voice into a conspiratorial tone. "Sorcery if you ask me, but us mothers are all a little bit witches."

"Mom, you promised the cookies!" the child protests, holding her mom's hand with both of hers now to pull her in the direction of her goal.

"Yes, yes, the cookies," she nods, with a sigh and a smile.

"With double stuff!"

"My baby won't have nothing less than double stuff," she agrees with a solemn tone, before saying "Bye" to Bonnie. She smiles at that, and picks a few more items before walking to the counter.

A man with a billion carefully folded receipts into his bulky wallet takes his sweet time collecting the coins from the small pocket and she shifts nervously her weight from one foot to the other, as she hopes to hear the ring of her cellphone, so that Elena will tell her what else might be needed. Only she never calls.

Once she's back home, with her little spoils and some sage, Bonnie begins finely grating six cloves of raw garlic, and as she lets it sit to activate the medicinal compounds, she reads the leaflets of what she's brought. Later, she pours a cup of honey onto the grated garlic and mixes it all; she hasn't the faintest idea what it is that brought up the fever, but it should sooth Damon's sore throat and help in case of infection. Moreover it's not good for him to take medications on an empty stomach. He will crack a joke about garlic and vampires, but he is so miserable she might just be able to win this one out – Sheila made garlic honey for her all the time when she was sick and she hated it too.

As the water for the tea is boiling, Bonnie stores the results of her gram's recipe into a sealed, dry jar, then she removes the pot from the heat, puts the sage in the water and lets it steep for about five minutes, before adding lemon and honey.

Preparing those recipes for Damon bring her back to a simpler time. She was a kid, and her family was a mess already, so she had learned to be strong - don't make a fuss, don't be too demanding, don't be _childish,_ though a child was what she was - but when she was sick she felt allowed to be vulnerable, allowed to enjoy the attention, she was cocooned in love and stuffed animals and her gram's hands smelled of safety as she pulled the covers up to her nose. Bonnie can feel her next to her now, making sure she follows her recipe just right, slowing her hand down when she stirs the tea too strongly, nodding her approval at the care in each of her simple gestures, smiling when she places the cup and all she has prepared on the tray in the Salvatore's kitchen.

She's gotten so used to moving around in that kitchen when they got stuck together on the other side, she can taste déjà-vu on her tongue, can smell in the air the creamy sweetness of the whipped cream on the cheeky face of her breakfast. Can feel the ghost of another life hanging around her like a well-worn oversize sweater, one of those you can never throw away because there's no hole you cannot love, no tear you can't sew up, because even in the frayed sleeves there's solace. It should be bitter, because it was years ago and yet never ago, because it's a time that will never come, at least not for her, but right now the softness of it all overpowers her cold reason, and she decides to think only of Damon – whom, in another life, in a simpler time, gave her a real home when she had forgotten what that was like. She decides to think of Damon half dozing off and trying to valiantly fight off a flu because he doesn't want her to worry – and mostly because he doesn't want to be emasculated by it - so she walks up the stairs balancing the trail in her hands and a smile on her lips.

It takes her a little effort to open the door because of her busy hands, but magic seems so out of place in such a _human_ situation, it seems stupid to resort to that so she just works it out with her hands and a kick of her foot.

"You're lucky to have a cold," she announces in a shushed tone as she enters the room, "this smells terrible, but it will do you good so no fuss, Damon," she adds.

He seems to ignore her as she puts the tray on the nightstand, and turns on the lamp in the corner of the room instead of opening the curtains. The artificial light is softer and farther away and it won't hurt his eyes so bad.

"Did you hear me?" she asks, turning around, ready to be implacable, "Damon, you need to drink this," she insists, walking towards the bed, before noticing his disturbed sleep, and the way his breath comes out in a wheeze.

"Damon," she calls again, to wake him up, but even if she shakes him he gives no sign to regain his senses, making her stomach drop. "You're not being funny," she protests, in a whisper as she tries to shake him again, obtaining no result.

Her phone is still silent, but she tries to contact Elena again. She's a doctor, or the closest thing to one, and to whom else can she ask what's happening to her ex- vampire of a best friend? What is she supposed to say when they ask about the patient's medical history? From which century is she supposed to start?

"Com'on, Elena. Damn it. Answer your phone." She mutters, as she delicately slips the thermometer inside Damon's mouth. He'll be so outraged at this. It would be funny if she wasn't so freaking worried.

Bonnie sits next to him on the bed as she leaves another message for Elena. "I don't want to alarm you or anything, but Damon is kind of on fire right now. Almost literally if you consider that his temperature is… forty," she says, looking at the blue line with fear. "Can you please call me back and tell me what I'm supposed to do? Even better, come here!" she demands. "Please," she adds, to soften her message and her disposition towards her friend.

She's put her in an impossible situation: For her, she went cake tasting with her fiancé, she's been mistaken for the bride to be left and right, and now she's being the nurse to his sickbed. And that should be Elena's place.

Sometimes Bonnie is scared she's going to forget that, only to remember it the day she stands next to Damon as he says his vows to another girl.

Bonnie pushes back her fears to concentrate on Damon. His pinkish lips are paler and appear chapped, a clear sign of dehydration, he's sweating so much and he looks in pain in his uneasy sleep. She uses a fresh towel to wipe his forehead, sliding it down his face and then takes the cup of tea to blow on it and feed it to him using a spoon. Slowly, using all the gentleness she's capable of, she holds his face with one hand and lets the liquid slip through his parted lips, one tea spoon at the time. He seems to quiet down a little under her touch, and yet she can see his eyes moving under his closed lids and her stomach twists in pain.

Halfway through it, when the sage tea is barely lukewarm, she puts down the cup, sits back on the bed, intertwines their fingers together -her right hand holds his left one, resting on his stomach - and reluctantly touches the door of his consciousness.

She can feel the anguish moving like sap though the veining of the wood-like barrier that keeps him from her. It would be easy for her to turn the knob and slip inside, Damon would not hold it against her because he's the captain of the _Whatever gets shit done_ team so he'd keep it down to a few caustic remarks, but she's been trying to regain a balance, to leave a distance, for how short, and he's been already slipping through every crack, making a mockery of her defenses, and now she can't actively throw herself into him, jump into his sharp, twisted, beautiful mind she's already learned so well she could walk its roads blindfolded.

She can't do this to either of them, because if she does she fears she's get drenched with his thoughts and his feelings and the scent of all of his shadows and all of his light, and she's never going to be her own again.

Yet, there's a tiny part of her that is ready to do this, face what hurts him and soothe it away, be the sentinel that guards him from his ghosts, that looks them in the eyes when he can't and barks at them to _fuck off, leave him alone, you can't have him_ , but she'd rather not do it this way, she'd rather have him tell her what hurts him - over a board game, thrown at her without a glance like it doesn't matter, though she knows how much it does, over drinks so he can blame it on his lack of lucidity and his loose tongue just in case it gets scary. She'd rather have him tell her as he looks her in the eyes and bares himself willingly because he knows he can trust her with anything.

So Bonnie closes her eyes, presses her open palms over the door and leans against it, "Damon, it's me, I'm here," she murmurs, "It's okay, I'm here," as she tries to let the stillness of her soul lull his always blazing spirit. It took her so much time to reach that point, all those hours and dusty horizons, all that loneliness and perseverance, and she can feel his soul burning the edges of it like paper catching fire, fast at first, then slower and slower, until there's just the lonely heart of the girl that left town with a suitcase and a bunch of feelings she didn't know what to do with, precious and untouched.

And the pulsing pain she can feel radiate though the door quiets down.

#

Elena lets herself in, pushing the front door open by leaning her weight into it with her shoulder, a plastic bag dangling from her as the other holds her brown leather backpack. She's so used to bringing it around with her - with a change of clothes, spare scrubs and a notepad. She didn't think to leave it in the car as she should have, so she just abandons it on the couch, taking the stethoscope before she walks to the stairs, pushing the hair back from her shoulders.

The faint smell of pine tree of the wood cleaner makes her suddenly more aware of her own smell, a mix of disinfectant and plain rubbing alcohol. It both makes her wrinkle her nose and smile in satisfaction – it's the unappealing proof that she's building a life she can be proud of, that she is putting all her efforts and all of her thoughts into something she believes in.

Her parents would be proud of her.

Stefan would be proud of her.

The thought of him is easy, especially in this house, especially around Damon. It makes her pace slow for a moment, thinking that maybe, just maybe, at the end of the flight of stairs she'll find the door of his bedroom open and she'll see his back the way she did on the first day of school.

Stefan would tell her he knew she was meant to do good in her life. He'd tell her that her heart will always guide her right. And she would love to hear it – the inflection in his voice, the way it became softer when it said her name, that manner he had of making the words slip into her to become the prayer that kept her going when she couldn't anymore.

 _Between the wars we dance_ _  
_ _Between the wars we left_ _  
_ _Don't wake me yet_ _  
_ _Don't wake me yet_

Sometimes she sits by the Salvatore family grave with her books and her notes so that he can see how hard she's working, so that he can be part of it, too.

Every now and then she wonders if Caroline would dislike it if she knew, every now and then she wonders what Damon would think of it if he knew, but it's not like she's doing anything wrong. Caroline has a vow to remember him by and Damon has his blood in his veins and she has only words unsaid, so she speaks to him, of her day and her dreams and asks him questions she hopes one day she'll hear the answers to.

She lets herself be comforted by the memory of his presence - so strong in this house he's welcomed her into, so strong in this house she can't leave - before going her way.

 _Between the wars we'll stay_ _  
_ _Fading echoes spin away_ _  
_ _Lost in memories, in memories_

Elena walks up the stairs, calls Bonnie's name to no avail ready to apologize profusely for leaving her to deal with this alone, and when she enters Damon's bedroom her eyes adjust easily to the soft light of the lamp but it takes her a moment to distinguish Bonnie's shape, half curled up on the large bed, next to Damon's legs, hands joined on his stomach as they both sleep, uncomfortably.

She walks to them to spy on their faces. She can detect the signs of the duvet on Bonnie's cheek and it makes her smile. Her friend is exhausted, and she's grateful for her taking care of Damon in her place. In a way, Bonnie is all the family Damon is left with. He might have bonded with Caroline over their mutual love for Stefan, and Alaric might be his favorite self-pity buddy, but Bonnie is his best friend, the one whose opinion he's interested in hearing, the one whose approval he wants even when he's ready to go against her judgment.

Elena's eyes rise to Damon's face when she hears a groaning sound coming from the back of his throat and she takes the folded towel on the nightstand, to freshen his skin. Before she can put the towel on his forehead he groans again, the sound is pained and whiny, Bonnie's eyes don't open, but her hand squeezes his as she shifts a little in her awkward position, calming him down immediately.

 _And still the rest_ _  
_ _Hasn't happened, hasn't happened yet_

Her fingers wrap around the spongy fabric of the towel, and it takes her a long moment to recognize the bitter feeling that bites at her, the sensation of being the third party in this suddenly crowded room. She's the fiancée, the future bride, and Damon is holding Bonnie's hand like he could go mad if he lost her. Yet it's stupid to think so, because they are friends, and they are not putting her into this spot on purpose.

She and Damon will be married in a couple of weeks, they will be happy in a couple of weeks, even if he needs to hear Bonnie's opinion and she needs to talk to Stefan.

"Hey," Bonnie's groggy voice breaks her away from her thoughts, "You're here, finally," she says, trying to rub the sleep away from her eyes, giving a brief glance in the mirror to grimace at the pattern of the duvet on her face.

"I came as soon as I heard your message," she says, with an apologetic smile, "I was on my shift."

"That's fine," Bonnie nods, standing up from the bed and trying to straighten up her back. "God," she laments, pressing the knuckles of her fist along the curve of her mistreated spine, "I'm all out of whack." But it takes her barely a breath to shift her attention back to Damon, "Can you check him out?"

Bonnie crosses her arms under her chest, almost hugging herself, as Elena feels his pulse, check his temperature and inspects his throat. She helps turning him on his side, as Elena hears his breathing with her stethoscope, but it takes her so long to come up with a conclusion she feels like she's been waiting an eternity.

"He's fine."

"What do you mean he's fine?" she asks, her voice slipping, before she can regain her composure, "He's clearly _not_ fine, have you seen his temperature?" she asks, frustrated, "I could roast marshmallow on his forehead."

"I meant to say that his lungs are fine and it's just a common flu," Elena replies, trying to appease her. She's seen a lot of panicking people stressed out by their loved one's conditions so she treats it like she would any other case. No matter who it is, she should maintain a doctor's mindset.

"He looks like he's about to die of cholera or something," Bonnie protests.

"His body is not used to being attacked by a virus. It doesn't remember how to fight them off," she explains, "In his time people died because of this, but we have this thing called _antibiotics,"_ she says with a smile, "So he'll be fine. It will probably take him a bit longer than normal to be on his feet but he'll be just fine."

The words taste sweet on her tongue, for she is finally doing something useful to help people. Her life is not just a chain reaction triggered by her bloodline, leaving her to mourn and watch her friends take the fall for her. She is being the person she had always wanted to be, she is being the person Stefan always thought she was.

"He better be," Bonnie decides, "because Caroline will give us so much crap for not sticking to the schedule for the wedding arrangements," she jokes, to lighten up the mood.

"Right," Elena nods knowingly, "So I better get the antibiotics," she adds leaving the room and closing the door behind her without turning around.

She's quite sure the wedding will be as beautiful as it can possibly be, she's quite sure of her diagnosis, quite sure about what they need right now. One pill after meals three times a day, a free day from the hospital so that they can exchange their vows, a good florist that did not work on the funeral of someone they loved.

 _Don't wake me_ _  
_ _Don't take me yet_

But a faint, unheard voice in the back of her head - as she walks down the stairs to retrieve her backpack and distractedly throws a look to the closed door of Stefan's room- is asking: _What the hell are you doing?_

 _#_

 **Note:** I feel like my note is always the same, but bear with me. The review sections is filled with requests to update and panicking messages asking if I abandoned this story. I have a miserable job, do miserable hours and have to study on the side, plus I have a lot of stories to update and sometimes my ispiration aims at a specific one and ignores the others, it doesn't mean the story is abandoned, it just means you have to be patient. If you want to help me, leave a review (a real one, not an 'update soon'), or buy me a coffee. I would like to be able to update more often but life won't let me, and I don't want to just slap words together for the sake of updating soon because if the story it's not true to the characters there's no point in trying. I want to bring your headcanon to a better place. Whatever question you have you can send me a PM, or leave a review as logged in user so I will know how to answer you, otherwise I have no way to reach you.

The song I used in this chapter is "Between the wars" by Allman Brown. I know you're here for bamon, but I feel like it's important to show in what place is Elena's mind in this story, and when the time comes I'll even touch upon Caroline's state of mind. I hope you enjoyed this update anyway. I'll be waiting to hear what you think.


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